My Only Hate
by VivacissimoVoce
Summary: Harry has been cursed and now inhabits the wrong body. Draco Malfoy may be the only one who can help.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** My Only Hate  
**Disclaimer:** All rights belong to J.K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership of the characters or settings contained within. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.  
**Pairings:** Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione  
**Warnings:** Contains mature language and sexual content  
**Rating:** M  
**Summary:** Harry has been cursed and now inhabits the wrong body. Draco Malfoy may be the only one who can help.  
**Author's Note:** Here I go cursing Harry again. A basic familiarity with the works of Shakespeare may help you with this one, but it's not necessary.

**oOo**

Shadows cast an unearthly gloom across Knockturn Alley, rendering even the smallest shapes into foreboding silhouettes. Harry crept forward a step, wand extended and free hand balled into a fist. Ron shuffled behind him, at his side as he ever was, but letting Harry forge the path into darkness. This should be easy.

Except it wasn't. Knockturn Alley was a dangerous place, even in the best of times, even on a warm, sunny day. At midnight, in the mid-winter cold of January, it was as bad as it could possibly be.

"Why are the curses only visible at midnight?" Ron muttered, shattering the silence with his complaint.

"Could be worse," Harry muttered back. "Could be the witching hour."

"If I'm not at home and in bed by then I'll fall over from exhaustion," Ron redoubled his grip on his wand and shuffled forward another step. "Or Hermione will kill me. One of the two."

It had been eight months since the war ended, six since the Death Eater trials, three since reconstruction efforts turned up the first curse boobytrap, one since the Ministry's mass clean-up effort cleared most of the wizarding world of traps, and now Harry and Ron were about to tackle the last remaining nest of curses leftover from the reign of the Dark Lord.

"It figures the last place we look is the worst yet," Ron complained again. "Why does it have to be us?"

"It was our night on the schedule," Harry crept forward and spotted the gleam of a curse at the edge of a doorway. It was round and translucent, like a phantom of a wax seal, with the words "Tiger-Footed Rage" scrawled across it. With a flick and a slash of his wand it shattered into a shower of red sparks.

"There are too many of them down here," Ron lashed out and shattered another curse midway up a lamppost. "There should be more than two people on it. And actual Aurors."

"If we get through this they'll let us into the Ministry for sure," Harry reminded him. "Acts of valor and all that."

"Like defeating You-Know-Who wasn't enough?" Ron asked, bugging his eyes out and dropping his guard. He stepped to the side and nearly touched a curse in the gutter with the edge of his boot.

"Look out!" Harry whirled around and blasted it before it could go off.

"What was it?" Ron jumped back and squinted at the fading sparkles.

"It said, 'Wrath Makes Him Deaf,'" Harry grimaced. "That's a bad one."

"You-Know-Who liked that one, didn't he?"

They crept forward another step, each shattering another pair of curses that glimmered in the moonlight. At this rate they'd only make it a quarter of the way through the alley before one o'clock, when the curses would fade from sight once again.

"We have to go faster," Harry said. "The businesses down here haven't opened since the war. People's livelihoods are depending on us."

"Oh yeah? Eager to see Borgin and Burkes open its doors again?" Ron slashed and shattered two curses with one blow.

"If the Ministry says these businesses are legal to operate, it's not ours to question," Harry ducked as a curse made itself visible just above his head. "That one was called 'Words Words Words.' I think it makes the victim unable to speak anything but gibberish."

"That would be a funny practical joke," Ron side-stepped a pile of three curses and destroyed them in sequence.

"Only if it was temporary," Harry shuddered. Sometimes the Weasley sense of humour missed him entirely.

"Isn't it odd that the Dark Lord cursed Knockturn Alley?" Ron asked. "Wasn't it mostly his people down here?"

"He hated his people almost as much as he hated everyone else," Harry shattered a big one that laid across the cobblestones ahead of them. "That one was an ice spell."

"I don't think I could get any colder," Ron shuddered and pulled his coat tighter around his collar. "We're never going to finish tonight. Do you want to break it up and come back tomorrow?"

"We should keep going until one," Harry said. "It doesn't make sense to waste the hour we've got."

They crept further, shuffling slowly and destroying every curse that caught their eye in the moonlight. Some were severe, lethal or terribly disfiguring. Others were more trivial, like weak bones or dragon's breath. Every now and then they spotted one that they'd never run across before and took note of the name etched in the seal so they could put it on record when they got back to the Ministry. Those unknown spells were the ones that made Harry the most nervous, because they had to guess what they did from the name, and had no idea whether a counter-curse existed yet.

"Watch yourself," Harry snared Ron's elbow and pulled him out of the way just before his hair brushed a curse that caused endless itching.

"Bollocks," Ron glanced up and saw what he'd almost run into. Harry shattered it so they could keep moving.

"Honestly, Ron, you've got to pay closer attention," Harry said, taking another short step and peering around for spells.

"I am paying attention."

"No, I mean really pay attention," Harry glanced over his shoulder at his friend. "Not paying attention is how people have accidents."

The instant the flash went off Harry knew what had happened. He'd walked into a curse. The split second between triggering it and feeling its effect gave his brain the opportunity to form several thoughts at lightning speed. They occurred in sequential order:

_Oh._  
_Oh no._  
_Oh shit._  
_Oh Merlin._  
_I'm going to die._  
_I hope I don't die._  
_I'm definitely going to die._  
_Voldemort killed me after all._

And then the pain struck him like a Cruciatus. He doubled over and hit the ground hard, too wracked with pain to cushion his fall with his arms. He heard Ron shout but couldn't focus on anything but the agony as his body quivered and shifted and squeezed here and stretched there and, oh Merlin, he was changing. What was he becoming? Was this a werewolf curse? Was he being transfigured? Was he becoming a monster? This couldn't be happening!

"Harry!" Ron grabbed his shoulders and tried to pry him out of his huddled ball.

"Ron," Harry whimpered. The pain was subsiding now, receding to the furthest reaches of his brain and leaving him shuddering in the wake of its passing. He was too terrified to open his eyes. He had been cursed. Something had happened, but the idea of opening his eyes and finding out what was more than he could bear.

"Harry, get up!" Ron pulled at him harder and managed to roll him onto his side, but Harry stubbornly remained curled up in the foetal position.

"No," he breathed. "I can't look."

"What the—" Ron leapt back and scrambled to ready his wand. "What are you doing here? What have you done to Harry?"

Oh gods, it sounded bad. It was bad. Bad bad bad. Harry moaned and tightened his ball.

"Get up now! Tell me what you've done to him!"

"It's me, Ron," Harry said, although his voice was muffled by his arms.

"Get up now, you traitor," Ron lashed out with his foot and kicked Harry hard across the shoulder. He rolled onto his back and clutched his arm in pain.

"Ow, don't do that!" He glared up at Ron. "I don't care what happened, you can't kick me like that."

"I'll do worse than that, Malfoy. Get up and tell me what you did to Harry," Ron readied his stance and glowered at him with seething hate.

"Who? What are you talking about?" Harry sat up and patted himself down. He was in one piece, although everything felt a bit weird. A bit out of place. And actually his hands-

"Get up, you Slytherin bastard."

His hands were very pale. And his fingers were long and slim. Graceful, almost.

"Did you hear me? I'll curse you into the stone age if you hurt him."

And in fact, everything felt a bit slimmer than usual. His shirt was a bit blousier, and his belt felt a bit roomy. Not much, but enough to notice.

"On your feet, Malfoy!" Ron shouted. "I'll count to three. One, two—"

"Don't shoot!" Harry scrambled to his feet and raised his hands in surrender. Everything was blurry. He squinted and removed his glasses, and found to his utter surprise that he could see quite clearly.

"What did you do to Harry?" Ron stepped closer and pressed his wand against Harry's chest.

"Ron." A cold fear flooded Harry's stomach. "It's me. I'm Harry."

"Don't try to lie."

"I'm not lying," Harry tried to sound as honest as he could. "Ask me something only I would know."

"What colour pants do I wear to sleep in?"

Harry dropped his hands in disbelief. "That's the best question you could come up with?"

"Only a Gryffindor, and only one from my year would know," Ron pressed his wand harder into Harry's flesh.

"It's a trick question," Harry sighed. "You don't wear pants to bed."

Ron's eyes widened and his wand dropped to his side. He staggered back a step, his mouth moving silently as he struggled to form words.

"It's me, I swear," Harry said. He knew with a sick dread what had happened but he couldn't make himself say it out loud, or even form the thought.

"Harry, you—"

"Don't say it."

"You look like—"

"Ron, please. It can't be happening."

"Oh it's happening, Harry," Ron stepped closer again and peered at him like he was an alien creature. "Look at yourself."

Harry reflexively followed Ron's pointing finger and stared at the reflection that shone in the storefront glass beside him. Blond hair, silver eyes, slim build, the wrong person stared back. His heart pounded and his head filled with static as the undeniable truth hit him with a sick finality.

"Harry," Ron's reflection breathed. "You've turned into Draco Malfoy."


	2. Chapter 2

"No! No no no! This is not happening! This cannot be happening!"

"Harry, listen to me," Ron seized Harry's shoulders and shook him sharply. "We've got to get you back to the Ministry. They'll have a counter-curse to change you back."

"Yes!" Harry looked up from the cobblestones, where he was busy hunching and moaning. He scrambled to his feet, then staggered to the side as his altered center of balance, extra inch of height, and lower profile muscles responded differently from what he was used to.

Ron caught his elbow, then grimaced and yanked his hand back as though burned.

"Ron, it's me," Harry said through unfamiliar lips. Thinner, maybe. And his tongue was, what, longer or wetter or more flexible or something, he wasn't sure. It was just different, and that was bad enough on its own. The idea of having someone else's tongue attached to his skull was so much worse than he could have possibly imagined.

"Sorry," Ron mumbled. He reached out again and grasped Harry's elbow. "Come on, then."

Harry Disapparated for the Ministry with Ron in side-along. They rushed inside and made their way to the Auror office, where they both hoped to be hired on as soon as there were openings. The Ministry had backfilled with Aurors from other districts and was still trying to figure out how to staff up in a post-Voldemort world.

Ron entered first and called for help. Three heads popped up over cubicle walls and leapt into action.

"Freeze, Death Eater! Don't move!" The first Auror took aim at Harry and glared at him from beneath a heavy brow.

"Weasley, step away from him." The second man took aim from the other side.

"What did he do to you? And where's Potter?" A witch with a heavy-duty potion holster strode directly up to Harry and pressed the tip of her wand against his temple. She gritted her teeth and hissed, "Talk, you little cretin."

"Ron, help!" Harry called. He slowly raised his hands to show he was unarmed and unthreatening. The sight of his pale fingers liquefied his bowels again. He wished he could curl up on the floor.

"Wait! That's really Harry!" Ron shouted. "He was caught by a curse in Knockturn Alley."

The three Aurors shared a look. "How do you know?" the first one asked. "Did you see it happen?"

"Yes, I was there," Ron nodded furiously. "That's not Draco Malfoy, that's Harry Potter."

"Prove it," the female auror snarled.

"Ron doesn't wear any pants to sleep," Harry blurted out the only proof he could think of.

The three Aurors paused and checked Ron's face for confirmation. He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "What can I say? I find them binding."

"Please, you have to believe me," Harry took some comfort in the fact that his voice sounded the same. None of that posh, lazy speech of the wealthy. "Ron, it's really me, right?"

"It's really him." Ron looked entirely miserable about it, too. "My best mate has been turned into a Malfoy."

The Aurors finally relented and let Harry sit down. They had him pull a chair up to a table near the Head Auror's office, which was dark at this hour. The glass window that enclosed the space reflected the rest of the office back at them, which unfortunately meant Harry had no choice but to see himself reflected back, too.

He waited patiently while Ron debriefed them, his trembling hands clutching a teacup and trying to take some comfort from its warmth. He stared at his reflection, at the familiar but wrongly placed face that stared back. Paler than he should be. Slimmer than he should be. Taller than he should be. His eyes were no longer their usual green, now they were unnervingly pale silver, his pupils shrunk down to pinpoints as the terror of being transformed washed over him in waves. His nose was too straight and regal, his chin just a bit too pointy, not a whisper of stubble or a blemish anywhere to be seen. On top of his head his thicket of black hair was gone, replaced by fine blond hairs that laid down obediently and moved with silky softness when he turned his head. It was all wrong.

"We're going to start researching a counter-curse," the first Auror called from across the office. "You should go home and get some sleep."

Harry looked up in surprise. "Sleep like this?" his voice cracked. "I can't sleep like this. I can't wake up like this!"

"Harry, they don't know how to change you back yet," Ron sat across from him and tried not to make eye contact. He stared at his fingers on the table.

"Ron," Harry said. He didn't look up. "Ron, look at me."

His best friend shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat. He raked a hand through his ginger hair, scratched his nose, and cleared his throat again. Finally he looked up and met Harry's silver gaze.

"It's really me," Harry said softly. "I'm sorry. I should have paid attention. I should have seen that curse coming. But it's really me, I swear."

Ron sighed and sat back in his chair, his eyes downcast again. "I know."

**oOo**

Harry stared up at the ceiling of his flat as a sliver of early morning sunlight crawled at a snail's pace across the textured plaster. He had slept terribly. Between the anxiety of being cursed and the disconcerting sensations of being in the wrong body, sleep had been as elusive as a fantasy. Outside Hogsmeade was waking up, the familiar clatter of vendor carts over cobblestones somehow less comforting than usual.

Less comforting, Harry decided, because he was terrified of the idea of going outside. He wanted the outside world to freeze, to disappear until a counter-curse was found. That the world would go on about its business as though nothing had happened seemed exceptionally cruel.

He refused to move. He would lie in bed as though frozen in ice, he would remain in stasis until someone showed up at his door with a cure. He would not use these stolen muscles, he would not walk on these stolen feet, he would not look through these stolen eyes, or speak with these stolen lips. If he laid here motionless he could pretend nothing had changed. He was just Harry, no big deal, just Harry having a lie-in.

It was a great plan, if only his stolen bladder didn't disagree. He squirmed and tried not to think about how his arse felt different on the mattress. Less padded, maybe. His legs beneath the sheets sent alarming signals to his brain that told him he was lacking sufficient hair to insulate him from the caress of his flannel pyjama bottoms. And his bladder, his traitorous bladder, it just wanted the loo.

Harry held out as long as he could, which only amounted to another ten minutes. If he didn't get up he would be at risk for weeing the bed, and then he would have no choice but to get up. It was totally unfair. It was blackmail. Why a tiny pouch of urine should have such control over his life was beyond him. He was a powerful wizard! He had defeated the Dark Lord! How could he succumb to something so banal and childish as wee?

He couldn't wait any longer. He hauled himself out of the bed and tried to ignore the pale blond forelock that fell over his eyes. _No, Harry Potter has black hair, you must be mistaken._

He shuffled to the loo, noticing that his pyjama bottoms were too short now. He frowned. "Now" made it sound like a permanent change. His pyjama bottoms were temporarily too short. That was better.

He kept his eyes closed when he reached the bathroom. He'd done this enough in the dark, or after a long night in the pub. He could find the toilet by feel. There, that was easy.

But now he was faced with a conundrum. Now he would have to touch his knob. And if that was different... Harry shuddered at the thought. Of course it would be different. But what if it looked strange? Or worse, what if it looked nice? Once things were straightened out Harry couldn't have that image floating around in his brain. Especially given the possibility of running into the real Draco Malfoy at some point. Could he face him knowing he had a monster cock?

Now hold on, he didn't know that it was monstrous. It didn't feel particularly large when he walked. Why should he have even imagined the possibility? Still, the idea of touching it made him squeamish.

He remembered being a child, back when he still lived with the Dursleys. It had taken only two bed-wettings before Aunt Petunia started leaving the cupboard door unlocked so he could get to the loo in the middle of the night. He'd become adept at keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn't have to wake up all the way, and on those occasions he'd found it easiest to aim successfully by sitting down to wee.

He dropped his pants, turned, and sat. With the briefest nudge he positioned and relieved himself and was back on his feet without having to look at his unfamiliar knob. Eyes still closed, flush, turn, and walk out.

His memory of the bathroom layout must not have been as solid as he thought, because he caught his hip on the edge of the sink and ricocheted into the towel bar. His eyes snapped open and there in front of him was the mirror.

_Oh gods._

Draco Malfoy stared back. Draco Malfoy in a burgundy Gryffindor pyjama top. His white-blond hair was rumpled, his pale gray eyes were bloodshot, and he stared back at Harry in utter dismay.

As though in a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, Harry raised his hand to touch his cheek. Draco did, too. He touched his hair and felt the silky fine strands slip between his fingers, and the man in the mirror did the same. He reached out with trembling fingers and touched the glass and Draco touched him back, their fingers mapping in perfect reflection.

Harry swallowed a scream. Draco's face twisted in agony. Harry grabbed two handfuls of hair and pulled, and went full-tilt furious when his former school enemy did the same.

"Stop it!" he screamed at his reflection. "I hate you! Why are you doing this to me?"

Draco-in-the-mirror had the same question Harry did. His heart pounded and his breath came fast and shallow. In the mirror Draco's pale cheeks reddened and his eyes went unfocused, and then everything went blurry and gray and the room tilted to the side, and the next thing Harry knew he was lying on the floor, his head in the corridor and his legs beneath the bathroom sink.

He had fainted, he told himself. He whipped his hands up in front of his face to check but his fingers were still long, slim, and pale.

_Still Draco Malfoy._

No.

_Still Harry Potter. Don't forget it._

He shook his blond hair out of his eyes and climbed to his feet, then tried to decide what to do next. His stomach answered with a resounding growl, which drove him to the kitchen for a disappointing perusal of his cupboards. If he wanted to eat he would have to go out. Not bloody likely.

His stomach growled again.

It was a ridiculous idea. He couldn't go out there looking like this. He wouldn't know what to do or what to say. What if he ran into friends? What if he ran into enemies? What if he ran into Draco Malfoy himself?

He shuddered and buried his face in his hands. It didn't bear thinking about. He hunkered on the living room window ledge and squinted out at the snowy sidewalks. There weren't many people out there. It was still early. The bakery across the street would have plenty of provisions to keep him fed until someone found a counter-curse.

He gazed down at his fingers and noticed that all of the prints on his right hand were whorls and all of the prints on his left hand were loops. Interesting but not helpful. His real hands, his birth hands, were a mix of print types, as he assumed most normal people's hands were. Not this strange perfect unity across all fingers. It had to have been selected at birth, by charm or by potion or something. It seemed fitting that a pureblood family would spawn unnatural fingertips for the sake of a more refined appearance.

"Joke's on you, Malfoy, if you were really refined both hands would match," he told his fingertips.

His stomach spoke up again, but he stifled it by jamming his fist into his abdomen. Then he drew his knees up to his chest—_more flexible now_—folded his elbows across his knees—_slimmer biceps, but not twiggy_—and rested his head on his arms. If he was going to get food, now was the time. Hogsmeade would only get busier with every passing hour. If he was going to get something, it had to be now or never.

Maybe starving to death would be the quickest way out of his misery.

He had to go now. He flung himself off of the window ledge and padded to the bedroom, where he threw on a lumpy red jumper and a pair of muggle jeans, then jammed his feet into a pair of trainers and slipped a black knit cap over his head. He pulled it down over his ears and eyebrows to hide as much of his face and hair as possible. Then he squirmed into his black peacoat, turned the collar up, and descended to street level with a determination that only barely overpowered his anxiety.

And then he was outside. Outside in Draco Malfoy's face. Where everyone could see him. What if they looked at him and knew? What if part of the curse was that everyone could tell who he really was and laughed? Ha ha, Harry Potter has turned into Draco Malfoy, that's hilarious!

_Shut up, everybody else_, he glowered around at the sparsely populated sidewalks. But so far no one had noticed him. Good.

He dashed across the road to the bakery and queued up to order, fidgeting with a handful of Galleons in his pocket, and when it was his turn he first ordered a Cornish pasty and a bottle of milk that he could slam back right away while he decided what else to order.

The baker handed over the pasty and the milk and accepted his money. Harry stepped aside to let the next person order while he crammed it into his mouth. Food tasted the same, at least so far. He wondered if having a different tongue would mean liking or disliking different foods. Which just reminded him that his mouth was full of Draco Malfoy's wet, squishy tongue and his stomach threatened to rebel.

The bell above the bakery door chimed and sent colourful sparkles floating across the room. Harry stepped back to make it clear that he wasn't part of the queue at the moment. He took another big bite of his pasty just as he heard a sound that made his blood curdle.

"Draco?"

_Fuck._

Harry looked up and met the wide-eyed stare of Pansy Parkinson, beside whom a mildly interested Blaise Zabini looked on. They were between Harry and the door. No escape. He swallowed hard and frantically tried to think of something to say. Something that would excuse him from conversation. _Think, brain, think!_

Pansy's expression darkened. She stepped up close to him, glared in angry silence, then slapped him hard across the face.

Harry reeled back and stumbled over a waste bin, his vision flaring into a million tiny flashes of pain. A gasp from behind the counter told him that the strike was as violent and unexpected as he thought it was.

"Buggery hell, Pansy," he rubbed his cheek and wobbled his jaw to make sure it wasn't injured. "What did you do that for?"

"That's for not fire-calling and telling me you were back," she spat. "You haven't called since the sentencing. My community service ended in December. Blaise's ended two weeks ago. When were you going to tell us you were done?"

"I don't know," Harry kept his head tilted down and avoided looking her in the eye by fiddling with the cap on his milk bottle. It was on tight.

"And what are you doing in Hogsmeade, anyway?" she demanded. Blaise stepped around her and quietly placed his order with the baker.

"Just visiting." The cap finally came free, and to avoid the obligation of answering further he tipped the bottle up and chugged the milk.

Pansy recoiled in horror. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Is that milk? Why are you drinking that?"

Harry paused. What was wrong with the milk? "I like it?" he shrugged. Oh please don't say the whole ruse would unravel due to such a petty detail.

"Pans, tell him what you want," Blaise called. He turned and gave Harry a critical once-over as Pansy went to the counter and studied the assortment of pastries and breads. Blaise's gaze fixated on Harry's jumper, which had been gifted to him by Molly Weasley and had never fit particularly well, but now looked absurdly baggy and ill-fitting on his current frame. "What on earth are you wearing, Malfoy?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. "And are those muggle trainers?"

Harry opened his mouth and frantically tried to come up with an explanation. In the reflection of the bakery case he saw Draco Malfoy standing slack-jawed with a half-eaten pasty in one hand and a half-drunk bottle of milk in the other. Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen. And although that wasn't new information, the sight kicked off a renewed flurry of anxiety. His stomach turned and clenched. And then rumbled. And then cramped.

That wasn't anxiety.

"You're turning green, Malfoy," Blaise smirked, clearly enjoying his friend's discomfort. "Did you ever find it funny that you have no more guts for dairy than you do for pureblood honor?" Pansy socked him in the arm and hissed at him to be quiet. She was right. The word "pureblood" was a risky one to utter in public these days.

"What are you talking—" Harry's stomach lurched. "Oh gods." He bolted for the door and threw himself outside. A vendor cart nearly flattened him as he blindly stumbled across the cobblestone road and threw himself up the stairs to his flat. He barely made it through the door before the roiling threatened to buckle his knees, and in one motion he threw his breakfast on the table, shucked his trousers, and planted himself on the toilet.

What followed was misery, agony, and pain, all rolled into one explosive digestive event, that eventually left him feeling drained and unable to do much more than crawl back to bed. He recalled Pansy's horror at the way he had chugged his milk, and the way Blaise said he had no guts for it.

Harry could have gone his whole life without knowing Draco Malfoy was lactose intolerant. But now he knew.

Bollocks.


	3. Chapter 3

"Harry?"

"Is he home? Where did he go?"

"Harry, are you here?"

"Just tell me what happened already, Ron."

Harry bolted upright in bed and scrambled for his trousers. He'd forgotten to close the Floo last night, which meant Ron and Hermione could just pop over unannounced. It was that sort of lack of boundaries that had started his practice of closing the Floo. And now he was pantsless in a smelly flat in the wrong body and his best mates were calling on him.

"I'm here, give me a moment," he yanked his jeans over his hips and glanced by force of habit into the mirror. Draco Malfoy glanced back, disheveled and out of sorts. Ordinarily he would love to see Malfoy looking out of sorts. But knowing it was his own reflection robbed him of the joy.

"Honestly, if you would just tell me what happened," Hermione sounded annoyed.

"I can't, you would never believe me," Ron said. "You have to see it for yourself."

"Here to gawk at me like a sideshow freak?" Harry asked as he rounded the corner and entered the living room.

Hermione's eyes widened in horror. She recoiled back against the fireplace mantle and clutched her purse to her body. Harry's heart dropped. He knew it was the curse, but the sight of Hermione pulling away from him like that cut like a knife.

Then her eyes darkened and she darted forward, and before he could raise a hand to protect himself she smacked him hard across the face. Ron gasped and leapt to restrain her.

Harry staggered back and grabbed a chair for balance. Stung tears welled up in his eyes as pain lanced through his cheek for the second time that day.

"Hermione, no!" Ron struggled to contain her. "That's Harry! Listen to me, that's Harry!"

"Hermione, it's me," Harry held up his hands to show he was non-threatening. "I've been cursed. I'm not Malfoy."

"What?" Hermione's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. That's Harry?"

"Yes," Harry and Ron said together.

"But," she shrugged out of Ron's grip and crept closer. "But you look exactly like Draco Malfoy."

"I know." Harry couldn't keep the dismay out of his voice.

"But that's awful."

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"How long has that milk been sitting out?" Ron spotted the discarded meal on the table. "It's going to spoil."

"Can't drink it anyway," Harry seized it and poured it down the drain. Good riddance. "Malfoy is lactose intolerant."

"That's what that smell is," Hermione glanced towards the loo. She flicked her wand and a sweet pink mist filled the flat, covering up the stink quite effectively. Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. His nose was the wrong shape, he thought. It seemed there was nothing he could do to escape the ever-present awareness that he was in the wrong body.

"So how do we fix this?" Hermione sank onto the sofa and looked back and forth between her two friends.

"We don't know," Ron sat beside her. Harry took the easy chair and slumped miserably into the cushions. "We reported it to the Aurors but no one has heard of this curse yet. They're working on it."

"Did you happen to see what it was named before I set it off?" Harry asked. His friends were avoiding eye contact, he noticed.

"It said My Only Hate," Ron nodded. "It must have figured out who you hate most of all and transformed you into him."

"But I don't hate anyone," Harry protested.

Ron snorted. "You're not a saint, Harry. You hate people just like anyone else."

"You definitely hate Malfoy," Hermione agreed.

"Thank Merlin it didn't turn me into Voldemort," Harry sank lower into the cushions. He stared at his stocking feet. He supposed he was lucky that he and Malfoy wore the same size shoe.

That's actually a good point," Hermione said.

"You say that like I don't usually make good points."

"You know what I mean. Why wouldn't the curse turn you into You-Know-Who?" she asked. "You hate both of them. But you have to admit that he was worse than Malfoy,"

"True."

"I mean," Hermione leaned forward, her mind energized by the puzzle. "If you were facing both in a duel and could only kill one, you'd choose..." She let the question dangle.

"Voldemort, obviously," Harry shrugged. "Don't forget, I did save Malfoy's life."

"Right," she squinted at him thoughtfully. "So why Malfoy?"

"Maybe You-Know-Who didn't want the curse to include his own identity as an option," Ron suggested. "Could he have created a curse that excepted himself?"

"He didn't create those curses," Hermione sat back and looked away from Harry again. He caught a glimpse of blond hair out of the corner of his eye and pushed it back.

"No, the Aurors are quite certain that he set them, with the command to go active after his death," Ron said. "What an arsehole."

"He set them," Hermione said. "He didn't create them."

"Then who did?" Harry looked up from the lumpy hem of his jumper, where those sodding pale fingers were busy fiddling with the stitches. "Could we track them down and force them to give us the counter-curse?"

"At the Ministry Archives," Hermione said in her classic know-it-all tone, "we think You-Know-Who cracked the Shakespearean ciphers."

Harry and Ron stared at her, then stared at each other, then Ron looked away. When they didn't ask, Hermione sighed and continued.

"Everyone knows William Shakespeare was a powerful wizard," she began.

"They do?" Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Nobody told me."

"The subject is a bit taboo," she shrugged. "No one talks about it much but it's well known in academic circles."

"Ooh la la, academic circles," Ron snorted. Hermione glared at him.

"Please continue," Harry touched her wrist. She yanked her hand away as though burned. Harry swallowed hard and withdrew.

"Sorry." She looked guilty. "Shakespeare was famous among muggles for his plays, but what they never knew was that each one of his works was a coded spellbook. That's why it's taboo. No one wants to talk about how a wizard of his stature put magic directly in the hands of muggles, just for their entertainment."

"But," Ron struggled to articulate a question. "Why would he do something like that?"

"He loved muggle culture, which meant he had troubles with the Ministry during his time." Hermione hefted her purse and dug around in it, reaching shoulder-deep to find something. "His earliest works were simply poetry, published and performed for muggles. When he was ordered to stop he rebelled by coding powerful spells in his works. Ones that the wizarding community knew were there but no one could decode. Then he published those plays and had muggles perform them, speaking encoded curses and charms to audiences all over England, but without the key that unlocked their power. He did it to show the Wizengamot that they couldn't stop him from expressing his craft."

She withdrew her arm from her purse and held up a thin folio with the words "Much Ado About Nothing" on it.

"This is the only play ever fully deciphered," she said. "And they've only made progress in the last twenty years or so. The Ministry Head Archivist shared some of the cipher with me when the curses started appearing, but said these spells are not to be made public knowledge."

"They can't just keep spells a secret," Ron was instantly outraged. "Everyone deserves to know about this."

"Ron, these spells are very powerful and complex," she shook her head. "Look at how terrible the curses have been. Shakespeare was an exquisite spellcrafter, perhaps one of the best that ever lived. But this magic could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Take this one," she flipped into the middle of the work and read carefully.

_"There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing."_

"What?" Ron stared at her cockeyed.

"That passage is a spell," Hermione tapped the page. "A curse, really. When deciphered it's a spell that dooms the victim to endless laughter. It's potentially deadly."

"What an evil bastard," Ron was clearly impressed.

"They're not all curses, there are some beautiful charms in here as well" she said. "But Voldemort seems to have mostly focused on unlocking the curses."

"How does any of that help me?" Harry raised a hand to focus their attention. Hermione and Ron both looked at him and flinched.

"It doesn't, unfortunately," Hermione sighed. "It appears Tom Riddle took great interest in studying Shakespeare's works and managed to decipher a great many curses contained within them. So while we may have potions and spells that effectively repair the damage, true counter-curses that fully neutralize the Shakespearian curses are mostly unknown."

"So you're saying you don't think they can find a counter-curse," Harry said, his voice carefully flat. "You're saying they have to know which work contains the coded curse, find the coded curse, then find the cipher that converts it into a usable spell, and only then determine the counter-curse that stops it."

"Right," Hermione's voice came out in a whisper. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"Well that's rubbish, I say," Ron jumped to his feet. "I say we get an army of friends on it, we'll all read a play from start to finish until we figure out which one contains Harry's curse. That's a start, isn't it?"

"We might not need to do that," Hermione said. "We can go to the Ministry Archives and see if someone recognizes it from their studies."

"What are we waiting for?" Ron waved them to the Floo. Harry didn't budge. "Come on, mate. You don't want to be Draco Malfoy forever, do you?"

"I'm not Draco Malfoy," Harry said miserably.

"You know what I mean."

"I can't go out there, not like this," Harry said. "It's too humiliating. I'm not going anywhere until the curse is broken."

"Harry, you have to come," Hermione said. "You might have heard or seen something that would help them figure out where the curse is from."

"I can't," Harry reached over and scooped up his knit cap from where he'd dropped it in haste earlier. He jammed it over his head and pulled it down to his chin.

"Harry," Hermione said gently. She knelt before him and lifted the hat free. "You have to come. We can't do all of it for you. I'm sorry."

"I look like an arsehole," he grasped her hand and touched it to his chest. "Look at you, you can't even touch me without cringing."

"Malfoy is an arsehole, I'll grant you that," Hermione forcibly relaxed her arm and stopped pulling away. "But he's fit, at least you've got that going for you."

"Hermione!" Ron's eyes bugged out.

"I'm not saying I would date him," she laughed. "But if you're going to be stuck looking like an arsehole at least you're a good looking one."

"Shut up, Hermione," Harry pulled the hat down over his face to conceal his blush.

She took his rude comeback in stride and patted his knee. "Get up and go shower," she said. "And try to dress like him. It will be easier to pretend you're him than have to explain why a Malfoy is dressing in muggle clothes."

Harry groaned.

"Go. You need a bath, mate," Ron agreed.

Harry dragged himself to his bedroom and closed his door, then went to the bathroom and closed that door, too. He had been dreading this moment. Having to see his full, unfamiliar body, to touch it and have all of his nerve endings answer back and tell him it was really his, to see himself in full as undeniably, completely Draco Malfoy, that was more than he felt he could face.

But he couldn't shower in a jumper. It had to be done.

He dropped his trousers and stepped out of his underpants, then yanked the jumper over his head and tossed it to the floor. Deep breath, now look at yourself.

He opened his eyes and looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror. His heart raced and his head swam with disorientation.

_That's not me. THAT'S NOT ME._

He gripped the towel bar and let the panic flood through him to its peak, then ebb away until he could look up again.

"That's me," he said out loud. "That's not my body, but it's me on the inside."

Seeing Malfoy's mouth move and utter those words made his head swim again, but he hung on and waited for the sensation to pass. When his head was clear he forced himself to really look, to really see the body he now inhabited.

Pale, it went without saying. Slim, but not skinny or gaunt. Somehow during seventh year and the months since the war Draco had made up for the stresses of sixth year and recovered from the frailty he had acquired back when Voldemort had tasked him with his special mission. Harry wondered what had changed, because that skinny boy had filled out when no one was looking.

Still a more slender frame than Harry's own, his torso was long and lean, with well-formed shoulders and a flat, muscular abdomen. His arms were nicely fleshed but not sculpted, and his legs were the strongest part of his body. Harry turned to the side and admired the strength in his thigh muscles and his well-toned calves.

But it wasn't all pleasant. From his shoulder to his hip a deep scar etched into his skin, the lasting remnant of a hasty Sectumsempra. Harry swallowed a pang of guilt. He hadn't meant to mark him permanently. He had meant to harm him, to deny that would make him a liar. It was bad enough to be guilty of attempted murder. He wouldn't be a liar, too.

His right forearm bore another scar, a faded twisted blemish that was once the Dark Mark. It was barely a shadow on the surface of his skin, but it was a reminder of what Draco had allowed to be done to himself in the name of blood purity and family honor. Or had he had any say in the matter? Harry had asked himself that question more times than he could count. He knew that there was a possibility that Draco's choice had been an illusion of choice. And it had become clear on more than one occasion that he regretted that choice, that he rejected that choice. But how could Harry know for sure? He inhabited Draco's body, not his mind.

He looked up at his face and stepped closer to the mirror. His eyes weren't truly silver, he realized. They were a soft gray with dark inner rings that grew paler as they approached the outer edge. It gave the impression of shining silver, but of course that would be absurd. Even for a pureblood.

His nose was very straight and shaped like it had been sculpted by a master artisan. On the other hand his chin drew to a point, making him appear more delicate than he was. Whichever heavenly creature had presided over his nose must have paid less attention to his chin. His forehead was broad without a trace of worry lines, his neatly shaped eyebrows were darker than the rest of his hair, saving him from looking like a washed-out, browless oddball. His lashes were darker, too. Hermione was right, he was good looking. But then, Harry already knew that.

Then there was his mouth. Harry had thought a lot about that mouth. His lips were thin, but any fuller would have lent him a slight feminine appearance. Better to have the thin, masculine shape, since he lacked other supporting masculine characteristics like facial or body hair.

He pulled his lips back and bared his teeth. Perfect, as expected. But Harry already knew that, too. He'd seen Draco's delighted smile from afar. And his sneer up close.

His eyes trailed up to the top of his head. Silky, glossy, platinum blond from root to tip, not a wave or a split end or a dark lock to be seen. He pulled his hair down flat to his scalp and peered closely but there were no dark roots. All natural, then.

He gently traced his fingertips down his temples and across his cheeks. He caressed his nose and lips. He ran the very tips of his fingers across his eyelashes and eyebrows. This was all his now, whether he wanted it or not. He was borrowing it, he assured himself, but it was his in the meantime. And it was okay to admire it, especially since this particular copy wasn't inhabited by a monstrous prat. It was a bit weird to admire it when his own soul looked out through these eyes, but he could live with that small bit of weirdness.

Just one more place to look.

_You're doing great. You're fine. You can do this._

He looked down.

His knob was normal. That was the first thought that flitted through his mind. It was normal and average size for a flaccid knob. It was a relief. There was nothing weird going on, no purple discolouration, no curvature, nothing unusual. And his bollocks, well, he should probably check them out, too.

Harry knew on all conscious levels that the man in the mirror was himself. The man in the mirror had placed his hand on his cock because Harry had placed his hand on his cock. He knew that. But something deep inside, down low beneath his consciousness, something in his primal brain didn't care. His primal brain saw handsome Draco Malfoy, fit as he was, touching his cock and inspecting his bollocks. And his nerve endings, which had no consciousness of their own, registered the delightful sensation of being touched.

And that was all it took. As Harry watched his cock stiffened, grew, and stood up at full salute. It was brilliant to behold. Smooth and straight, good thickness, nice firm head, Harry salivated involuntarily at the sight of it. At the sight of himself.

_Oh gods._

But he couldn't tear his eyes away. He looked up into Draco Malfoy's face and saw lust there, but his confused primal brain didn't care that it was his own lust reflected back. He saw a handsome man, a man he'd been attracted to in a dismaying way for years, looking back at him with as much desire as Harry felt.

He stroked his cock and swallowed a moan as Draco in the mirror did, too.

_That's me. I should stop. I should—_

He stroked faster, relishing the sensation of his warm, velvety skin sliding beneath his fingers. Harry's own body had no shortage of hair, so the smooth glide was more amazing than he could have imagined.

He braced himself on the wall, and Draco in-the-mirror did, too. Harry gasped and swallowed another moan, beyond the point of no return as his reflection drove him towards climax. Heat crept up his neck and burned in his cheeks, drawing out a feverish flush in Draco-in-the-mirror's face. He looked deeply into his eyes and imagined the real Draco was wanking over Harry, too, and that was it. He came all over his hand, the mirror, and the bath mat.

"Fuck," Harry buried his face in the crook of his elbow. He was immediately wracked with regret and disgust. He had just wanked to himself in the mirror. Or to Draco Malfoy. Either way it was an utterly horrid thing to do.

He quickly Scourgified the bath mat and mirror, then jumped into the shower and scrubbed down as quickly as he could. He tried to ignore the disconcerting sensation of lathering incorrectly shaped body parts, or shampooing strangely silken hair. When he stepped out he quickly wrapped a towel around his waist so he wouldn't have to look at his knob again.

Steam billowed out of the bathroom as he went into his bedroom to get dressed. He stood before his wardrobe and touched a shirt or a jacket here and there, unsure of what to choose.

"Harry, do you need help?" Hermione gave a perfunctory knock before barging in. Lack of boundaries again.

"I'm not—" Harry whirled around and clutched his towel.

"Merlin!" she hauled up short at the sight of him. Her eyes raked over his exposed body and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Don't stare at me like that," Harry's voice verged on a whine.

"I can't help it," she giggled. She strode across the room and with none of the hesitation of before. She touched the scar on his chest and drew her finger down the length of it, raising goosebumps everywhere. "What is this?"

"Sectumsempra," he muttered and turned back to the wardrobe.

"Goodness, what happened to your back?"

Harry felt her small fingers trace down from his shoulder blade to his hip and shivered. "I don't know. It wasn't my back whenever it happened."

"Ron, come look," Hermione called, and to Harry's dismay Ron joined them and touched his back, too.

"Someone tell me what you're looking at," Harry sighed.

"Scars," Ron said. "If I didn't know better I'd say..." he stopped and stepped back.

"Belt marks?" Hermione's voice was soft. "They look like you were beaten with a belt."

"I was beaten with a belt," Harry said. "But I don't have any scars, and it was my legs, not my back."

"Well it looks like Malfoy was beaten badly enough to leave marks," Ron said.

"I don't think it was Voldemort who did it," Hermione answered the question that they were all thinking. "They're not recent, like the one on your chest. These look old."

"Enough," Harry shrugged away from them and turned his back to the wall. "I don't care about the mystery of Malfoy's scars. I just want my body back."

"Sorry," Hermione dove at his wardrobe and sorted through the available options. She found a pair of charcoal gray trousers and a matching suit coat, and paired them with a black buttondown shirt that Harry had worn only once. To a funeral.

"I can't wear that," Harry grimaced. "I won't."

"Do you want to explain to people why Draco Malfoy is wearing muggle clothing?" Hermione demanded. She glared up at him, diminutive but fierce as always.

"Okay fine! Go away so I can change," Harry plopped down onto his bed in defeat. His friends left and closed the door behind them.

He knew they were right, it would be easier to pretend he was Draco in public. But at least he could still retain something of himself. He picked out a pair of red and gold Gryffindor y-fronts and put them on. There. He would still be Harry beneath the subterfuge, and no one else needed to know.

Once he was dressed he stood before the wardrobe mirror and wanted to cry. He looked so much like Draco sodding Malfoy that he could hardly stand it. The morose colours and the formal style completed the picture, completed the transformation. He had to sit down again.

"Are you ready yet?" Hermione knocked once and entered again. "Oh."

"It's humiliating," Harry moaned.

"It's amazing," Ron appeared in the doorway now.

"I hate my life."

"Come here," Hermione reached into her purse and withdrew a small vial of styling gel. She combed his hair down and to the side, then worked the product through. When she stepped back Harry looked at his reflection and moaned again

_Now_ the transformation was complete. He was indistinguishable from the one person on earth at whom he would have gladly cast a bat bogey hex. He missed his glasses. He missed his messy black hair. For Merlin's sake he missed his forehead scar.

Let's go," Hermione tugged him to his feet and dragged him to the Floo.


	4. Chapter 4

One by one they each stepped out in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Around them emerald green flames belched out witches and wizards into the polished wood and brick corridor, dozens of fireplaces actively transporting people in and out.

Harry's guts twisted and he worried that the milk was returning for a second volley. But Hermione gave him no time to think, she tapped his elbow and strode off down the corridor towards the lifts. Ron scrambled to catch up to her and grasped her hand in his. The grip was more protective than affectionate, but Harry supposed that was a matter of semantics.

He tried not to think about how exposed he was. As he walked he couldn't ignore the glimpses of recognition here and there as other wizards passed them and glanced his way. Draco Malfoy, son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy, who was now serving seven sequential life sentences in Azkaban for his betrayal of the Ministry. Son of the disgraced and barely-pardoned Narcissa Malfoy, who had been deported as punishment and now resided in a small wizarding town along the French Riviera. Not a bad punishment at all, by Harry's measure.

He saw disgust, sympathy, revulsion, admiration, hatred, and approval in the rippling wall of faces that passed by. He'd been on the receiving end of those looks as Harry Potter, but now it seemed the types of people bearing those expressions were reversed. Those who showed admiration and approval did not look like the kind of people he wanted admiration from. And those who showed naked disgust were people he would have wanted on his side.

He wondered how he would have taken the phenomenon as a child, when he hadn't yet done anything to earn the right to receive any of those emotions, yet received them nonetheless. He had to believe it would shape a worldview very much in opposition to the one he knew.

He hauled himself up short. That sounded suspiciously like rationalizing Malfoy's misdeeds.

They passed through the golden gates and paused at the bank of lift doors. Hermione asked them to wait and dashed around the corner in pursuit of someone she knew from work, leaving Harry and Ron alone.

Their reflection in the polished brass doors was odd. A Weasley and a Malfoy standing beside each other, about to share a lift without shuffling around and making excuses to travel separately. It was bizarre, Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy, best mates. Only the twisted mind of a madman could have imagined such a sight.

"When we get there—" Ron glanced back and cut himself off mid-thought. His eyes widened in horror. He swung back and stared at Harry. "Malfoy!"

"I'm not Malfoy," Harry sighed. Why did he keep having to—

"Malfoy!" Ron hissed urgently. He jabbed a finger down the corridor.

Harry followed its trajectory and saw the worst possible thing imaginable. Draco Malfoy, the real one, was walking towards the lifts with two men in formal robes accompanying him. If Harry's brain hadn't been occupied with sheer terror he might have appreciated how close his chosen outfit matched the one the real Draco was wearing. But as it was he could observe no such detail. All he could think was one thought:

_Got to get out of here! Got to get out of here!_

"Malfoy!" Ron took Harry's frozen terror as obliviousness. He seized Harry's arm and shoved him behind a great granite planter that overflowed with decorative greenery to one side of the bank of lifts. Harry's shoes skidded and he toppled to the ground, then scrambled on hands and knees to put the planter directly between himself and his approaching enemy. Draco was close now.

"...My father's solicitor has not relinquished the ledgers as he was instructed to."

That familiar voice, that posh, lazy accent that oozed confidence, however false it may have been, turned Harry's guts into goo. There could literally be no greater humiliation than facing Draco Malfoy while cursed to wear his face and body. If he had to make a list of things that were worse, the list would be blank.

"Weasley."

"Malfoy."

Harry was proud of Ron's acting. He knew his friend was probably coming apart on the inside, but he'd managed to inject a flat, disinterested boredom into his mild greeting. It was notable that Draco didn't follow up with an insult. Harry peeked over the top of the rim of the planter and goggled at the same sight he'd observed firsthand a moment ago: Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley, standing together against all odds.

Just then Hermione came back around the corner and rejoined them. "Sorry, I've been trying to catch up with Katherine all week. Harry, can you press the call button, please?"

_No!_

Harry's heart squeezed as the question escaped her lips. Draco turned slowly and stared at her, then looked around in confusion. She turned and faced him directly.

"Harry, the call button."

Ron jabbed her in the side with his elbow as Draco stared at her again in disbelief. "Are you completely mad, Granger?" he asked.

"That's a good likeness—" the flash of smile froze in rictus as reality dawned on her. "Oh."

Harry took a chance while Draco's back was to him and waved from behind the planter. Hermione spotted him and her spine went stiff. She cleared her throat and laughed, then mumbled something about being overworked and preoccupied.

"Hm," Draco turned back to face the lift doors. "Is she your girlfriend now, Weasley?" he asked.

"Yes," Ron's reply was clipped.

"You should take her to a healer to have her head examined," Draco said. "If she's mistaking me for Potter, there's definitely something wrong with her mind."

Harry bridled at the comment and resented being unable to snap back. He knew that tone. Self-satisfied, amused by his own cleverness. As he seethed it occurred to him that perhaps Draco meant it as a joke, but who did he think he was, joking around with Harry's friends?

"Mind your business," was Ron's best comeback. Harry rolled his eyes.

The lift chimed and the doors slid open. The two men in formal robes stepped inside, followed by Draco.

"Are you coming?" Draco asked. "I don't bite. At least not when there are witnesses."

_You think you're so funny, don't you?_

"Thanks, we're waiting for someone," Hermione said.

"For Potter? Look, here he comes now," Draco pointed down the corridor. Harry saw he was indicating an obese middle-aged woman in a floral print dress.

"Very funny, Malfoy," Ron sneered.

"Seriously, mate," Draco said in a conspiratorial tone. "Have her head checked."

Then the doors slid shut and he was whisked away.

**oOo**

The next lift arrived a moment later and they were shuttled to the other end of the ministry where the doors opened up into a grand, lofted space lined with gleaming cherry wood and filled with books. The air was rich with the scent of aging parchment and leather binding, and from all around the circular space the susurration of murmurs greeted their ears. Harry wondered why he had never heard of the Ministry Archives before.

An elderly witch in a tall, peaked hat appeared as though summoned, and it was clear from her demeanor that she recognized Hermione.

"Madam Wordsworm," Hermione bowed her head in respect and indicated her companions. "This is Ronald Weasley, my boyfriend, and this is—"

"Mister Malfoy, I have nothing more to say to you," Madam Wordsworm sniffed. "Until your father's solicitor releases this so-called proof—"

"I'm not Draco Malfoy," Harry interrupted. "Hermione, tell her."

"Madam, if I may," Hermione laid a hand on his arm. "This is Harry Potter. He was cursed and was transformed into Draco Malfoy."

"Just his body," Harry corrected. "I'm still me on the inside."

"By Merlin's beard," Madam Wordsworm shook out a pair of reading glasses and grasped his chin for a close-up inspection. "It's a remarkable likeness. We received a call from the Auror's office about this earlier this morning but I didn't expect..." She released him and removed her glasses. "Was it a Shakespearean curse? One of the Dark Lord's?"

"We think so," Hermione nodded. "They were clearing Knockturn alley and Harry accidentally triggered one."

"What was it called? Did you happen to see it in time to translate it?"

Ron raised his hand. "I saw it before it went off. It said, My Only Hate."

"My Only Hate," the woman murmured. "That does ring a bell. Come with me, Old Paul will know."

Harry followed the others into the stacks. Madam Wordsworm had to have been nearing eighty years old. If she called someone old, he must be ancient.

At the back of the hall they came to a broad table with stained, faded parchments spread across it, and seated before it in a tufted leather chair was a man so elderly that Harry questioned whether he was still alive. His eyes were milky white and rheumy, his beard was long and sparse, his hands were skeletal and trembled as he waved to wandlessly flip a page over without touching it. He looked up and worked his mouth for a moment before speaking. His voice was the embodiment of dust.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Have you brought me some well-wishers, Edina?"

"You've met Hermione Granger. This is her beau Ronald Weasley, and this is Harry Potter."

"I may not see as well as I once did," Old Paul chuckled. "But even I can see that that is not Harry Potter."

"I am, sir," Harry sat in the chair across from him without invitation. "I'm under a curse that changed my appearance."

"Shakespearean, is that why you're here?" Old Paul peered at him.

"We think so," Harry said. "It was called My Only Hate. Does that sound familiar?" His breath hung in his throat as he realized how much of his hope was hinged on the archivists knowing what to do.

"Of course it does," Old Paul smiled. "Romeo and Juliet. Published in 1597, a fine example of a his writing prowess. And, we believe, heavily coded."

"Why would a love story have such a terrible curse in it?" Hermione asked. "Why should Harry be cursed to live as his enemy?"

"William Shakespeare had a wicked sense of humour," Old Paul said. "To turn a man into his enemy, if only to show him how infinitesimal the value of rivalry is, that would suit the theme of the play."

"But—"

"Romeo and Juliet is not a love story, contrary to popular belief," Old Paul continued as though uninterrupted. "It is a great tragedy that illustrates how keeping hatred in your heart can rob you of that which is most precious to you, as the two warring families lost their precious son and daughter. It shows how the folly of adults can lead to folly in children, when poor decisions may lead to the greatest sorrows."

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look that told Harry that they were all piecing the same idea together.

"Like the decisions of our parents' generation led to our sacrifices," Hermione was the only one who could articulate the thought. "Harry, connected to the Order of the Phoenix, and Draco, connected to the Death Eaters."

"Let's not take this too far," Harry said. "Let's not forget that Romeo and Juliet fell in love. Malfoy and I hate each other."

"That is what is so interesting about your curse," a smile creased Old Paul's face in a million tiny crinkles. "Act one, scene five:

_"My only love sprung from my only hate!_  
_Too early seen unknown, and known too late!_  
_Prodigious birth of love it is to me,_  
_That I must love a loathed enemy."_

Harry looked back and forth between the elderly man and his friends. "I don't understand."

"Perhaps there is more to your rivalry with young Master Malfoy than you are willing to admit," Old Paul said.

"Right," Harry pushed himself to his feet and strode back between the stacks to the lift, where he mashed the call button with his stupid, sodding, too-pale thumb that didn't even belong to him.

"Harry," Hermione called. "Come back, there's more you should hear."

"I'm done listening to this," he whirled on her, not a bit concerned about speaking loudly in a library. "That old nutter thinks there's some kind of deep symbolic parallel, some kind of star-crossed lovers rubbish, and I'll not hear a word of it."

"But—"

"Not a word of it!"

Hermione shrank back and a shadow of anger crossed her face before being replaced by hurt confusion. "I'm sorry," she tried to recover her equilibrium. "You look so much like him, and when you're angry it's sort of like you're really Draco Malfoy."

Rage boiled in his chest. "I am not Draco Malfoy!" he shouted.

The lift arrived and he pressed the button for the entrance hall before Hermione could respond. As soon as the doors closed he was faced with his reflection, the blond, groomed upper-class twat who had destroyed his life.

"You fucking wanker!" he slammed his fist into the polished brass door.

And now his hand hurt. Thanks again, Draco fucking Malfoy.


	5. Chapter 5

By shopping at a muggle Tesco and Apparating directly to his flat Harry managed to collect enough groceries to ensure he would not have to go back out for several days. He tried every food carefully, reluctant to repeat the experience he'd had with milk. He found that sweets were especially appealing now, and that his mouth was too sensitive for the spicy curries he used to enjoy. Another reminder that he had another man's tongue inside his head.

He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason why the tongue issue bothered him so much. Perhaps because he'd thought about Draco's tongue before. Back in their school days, back before things went so seriously downhill, back when the worst he could say about Draco was that he was a spoiled rich prat and a bully, he used to watch him from afar and admire him purely as a physical specimen. He didn't want to get to know him, he just liked to look at him. And occasionally think about what it would be like to touch him. And, okay, maybe what it would be like to feel that tongue on his knob. He didn't like Draco, but if the bloke had ever offered him a blow job he would have had a hard time saying no.

So now, having Draco's tongue actually in his mouth, he found himself a bit preoccupied by how it felt. How it performed. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in numb exhaustion, wondering what this tongue could do to a cock. He gave a half-hearted effort to see if he was flexible enough to get to his own, but knew that was an impossibility. But if he had something that looked like one...

Harry did, in fact, have something that looked like one. He had acquired it during a brief relationship with a muggle man over the summer who had taught him a lot about his body and his preferences. He swished his wand and the candleholder on his bedside table transfigured into a pink silicone dildo. Harry hadn't managed to convince himself to try it yet. It was big and he didn't think he could manage it without help. But he kept it, because why not?

He studied it, cast a sanitizing charm, and studied it again. He waved his hand and summoned a hand mirror from the highboy chest, then propped it up beside him on the mattress. There was that face, Draco Malfoy looking back at him. Beautifully sculpted nose, pointy chin, white blond hair and all. He touched the dildo to his lips and watched his reflection. Draco-in-the-mirror did so, too. He flicked his tongue, that soft, wet tongue that was now his to control, across the rounded head of the toy.

His cock perked up. Draco's cock. No, Harry's cock shaped like Draco's cock. Either way, the sight of his reflection mouthing the prodigious knob was exciting. He parted his lips and took just the head in, then pushed it to the back of his throat to take as much of the length as he could. Draco Malfoy, as it turned out, had very little gag reflex.

Harry groaned as he slipped the toy free and watched himself slide it deep again. With his other hand he grasped his cock and squeezed, eliciting another groan. The sight was driving him crazier than he thought it would. Draco-in-the-mirror stared back at him with an intense lust that hungered for another swallow, so he slid the toy in deep and stroked his cock faster. His silvery eyes fluttered and tried to close, but that would mean no longer watching that face do erotic things to a phallic object, and what was the point of any if it if he couldn't watch?

He stroked faster now, pushing in and out as he stroked in counter-rhythm. Before long his bollocks tightened and the warmth that preceded an orgasm spread through his groin. And then with one deep thrust his hips convulsed and he came all over the sheets, spasming in an extended orgasm that seized his entire body. He slipped the dildo free and gasped for breath as the climax gradually released him from its grip.

So that was twice now that he had wanked to his own reflection. To Draco Malfoy. He pressed his pillow over his face to muffle a groan. Maybe Old Paul was onto something.

_Ugh. No._

He cleaned up with a Scourgify spell, transfigured the dildo back into a candleholder, and zipped up his jeans.

He was back in the kitchen looking for something sweet to snack on when the Floo whooshed and his boundaryless friends were stepping through into his living room.

"Polyjuice!" Hermione called with a grin. "Merlin, it's still strange to see you like that."

"What about Polyjuice?" Harry refused to get excited about a potion he was too familiar with to trust.

"We were talking about it earlier after you left the archives," Ron paused for a reproachful raise of an eyebrow before continuing. "What if you could use Polyjuice to look like yourself until they figure out the counter-curse?"

Harry stared back and forth between them. It wasn't a horrible idea. "Okay."

"Go fetch a brush that has hair in it from before you changed," Hermione reached into her purse and pulled out a small flask.

Harry hurried to the loo and found his brush, which thankfully had a handful of black hairs trapped among the bristles. He brought it back and offered one to his friend. She dropped it into the flask and handed it to him. "Have a sip," she said. "It's a good brew. Should last a couple of hours."

Harry tipped the bottle up to his lips and took a swig. It tasted as terrible as ever, but if it worked he would drink it for the rest of his life if he had to. Immediately his insides cramped and he fell against the counter. His hands rippled and bubbled before his eyes, pale skin darkened in waves and lightened again as the potion permeated his body. He doubled over and cried out in agony as the transformation spread through every limb, but then it faded and passed and he was able to stand upright again.

"Well?" he asked Hermione and Ron, but they only stared at him in dumbfounded surprise. Harry whirled around and checked his reflection in the glass cabinet door. Blond hair, gray eyes, pointed chin. He was still Draco Malfoy.

"Why didn't it work?" Hermione murmured. "It's a good brew. I've used it."

"Why didn't it work?" Harry echoed. "Fucking hell, Hermione, I got my hopes up!"

"I don't know what went wrong," she peered at the hairs in the brush. "Let me see," she tipped the flask and took a sip.

"Hermione!" Ron yanked it out of her grasp. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Helping Harry. Come on then, you help, too," she said before doubling over in agony. Ron helplessly tipped the bottle back and took a gulp of his own.

Harry stared in disbelief as his friends clutched their stomachs in agony and rippled through a bizarre transformation. And when it was done three Draco Malfoys all blinked at each other in surprise.

"You have got to be kidding me," Ron said through Draco's mouth. He scratched his head, then looked up in surprise at the silky texture of his blond hair.

"Well this isn't what I expected either," Hermione said as Draco, too. Her male body was clad in her purple sweater and gray skirt.

"This is the absolute worst thing the three of us have ever done," Harry declared. The absurdity of it struck him like a thunderclap and he laughed like a lunatic. "Look at us, three best mates, all turned into Draco fucking Malfoy!"

"Where did I go wrong with my life?" Ron started to laugh, too. It was quite lovely to see such a carefree, harmless smile on Draco's face. Harry didn't think he had ever seen one like that, certainly not this close.

"Look at me," Hermione held her skirt out and shook her head in disbelief. "I've got it worse than either of you."

They fell out laughing, their voices normal but their faces identical. Harry fetched Hermione a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and then they all settled in the living room to wait out the transformation back.

But by the second hour they were all bored and the situation was no longer so hilarious. Three disgruntled Draco Malfoys stared into empty space, waiting for the clock on the Polyjuice to tick down.

"This is really awful," Ron said. His Malfoy face looked disgusted. "Of all people, you know?"

"Trust me, I know." Harry reassured him.

Hermione's Malfoy face looked worried. "I wonder how much longer we have. I didn't look at the clock when we did it."

"What's it like being a man?" Ron asked her. They studied each other thoughtfully.

"Taller," she said. "And it's strange not having breasts."

"What about..." Harry nodded at her lap.

"I'm trying not to think about it," she sniffed primly.

"Come on," Ron nudged her. "You want to look."

"Go ahead," Harry said. "Go in the loo and have a peek."

"Fine," she rolled her gray eyes, not a bad imitation of Draco's typical show of annoyance. She pushed herself to her feet and strode to the loo with a purpose.

"Ten Galleons says she wanks it," Harry said.

"What?" Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust. Harry understood the strange cognitive disconnect his friends had been experiencing with him. To see an expression like that, so natural on Draco's face, confused the irrational part of his brain.

"She already said Malfoy is fit," Harry said. "She's never experienced what it feels like to have a knob. She's going to look at herself in the mirror, see a handsome man, touch her cock, and she's going to have a wank."

"Is that what you did?" Ron looked disgusted.

"Well," Harry realized he couldn't deny it now. "I mean it's only natural. It's instinct."

"Maybe there's something to Old Paul's idea about the curse," Ron leaned his blond head on his hand and peered at Harry.

"Why, just because I can admit that Malfoy is attractive?" Harry was instantly outraged at the suggestion. "You don't get it because you don't like blokes. If you looked like," he searched for an example of an attractive but dreadful girl, "Daphne Greengrass."

"Daphne Greengrass isn't half the prat that Malfoy is," Ron snapped.

"So you're saying that you wouldn't have a wank if you were transformed into a beautiful woman, just because she had a bad personality?" Harry didn't believe him for a second.

"I don't know," Ron flopped his head back on the sofa cushion. "All I know is my girlfriend might be in there wanking to another man's face."

"You couldn't blame her if she did."

"I know," Ron said. "But I still don't like it."

The bathroom door opened and Hermione strode back to the sofa, her pale cheeks bearing just a hint of a flush near her ears.

"What did you think?" Harry asked.

"Very educational." She smoothed her blond hair back, the feminine gesture comical on Draco's body.

"How did it feel?"

"I," she hesitated, and then a cheeky smile spread across her handsome face. "Well..."

"She wanked it," Harry grinned at Ron. "Pay up."

"I never took that bet," Ron said.

"You knew?" Hermione's eyes widened.

"He did it, too," Ron said.

"You did?" Her eyes widened more. "Harry, if Old Paul—"

Just then Harry doubled over in pain and groaned. A moment later Hermione doubled over, too, followed by Ron. They wallowed in agony and sweated through the twisting, writhing pain of transformation until the potion was finally finished.

When they looked up Hermione and Ron were back to normal but Harry was still in the wrong body.

"All of that pain for nothing." Harry climbed back into his chair and sighed.

Ron kissed Hermione and looked deeply into her eyes. "I've never been so relieved to see you," he said. "Maybe next time bring a weaker brew."

**oOo**

The next morning Harry went through the motions of showering and getting dressed without the emotional turmoil of the day before. This worried him, because perhaps it meant he was getting used to it. He couldn't afford to get used to it.

When Hermione and Ron stepped through the Floo as he was eating breakfast he wasn't even surprised. And when they told him they wanted to go back to the Ministry Archives he still wasn't surprised. But he didn't want to go.

"You need to hear the rest of what the archivist has to say," Hermione said. "You might not need a full counter-curse."

"Why didn't you say that yesterday?" Harry demanded.

"You wouldn't listen."

"I'll get changed and we can go right away."

Which was how Harry Potter ended up walking the corridors of the Ministry of Magic wearing Draco Malfoy's body for the second day in a row. He trailed behind Hermione and Ron so as not to raise any suspicions, although he seemed to garner suspicious looks from passers-by no matter what he did.

"Mister Malfoy."

_Bollocks._

A short man with a black mustache and greasy hair slicked over a receding hairline peered up at him through tiny round glasses. He wore a solicitor's robe and a dour expression that told Harry he wasn't happy much of the time.

"I just sent word to your solicitor's office," the man said. "Your offer was generous but insufficient for me to break your father's confidence."

Harry stared at him silently, hoping it would read as confident disapproval rather than confusion.

"I provided a counter-offer that I am sure you will find reasonable," the man continued. He swiped at a bead of sweat on his temple.

A memory tingled at the back of Harry's mind, something Madam Wordsworm had said. He took a risk and spoke, affecting a lazy, posh accent. "And you think it is your right to withhold proof?" he asked.

"No one knows yet whether it is the proof you believe it is," the man smiled sourly. "But I was entrusted by Lucius Malfoy to keep it, and I shall not release it unless my terms are met."

"I'll have my solicitor review your counter-offer and draft a response," Harry was surprised by how easy it was to fake an understanding of what was being discussed.

"Good day, Mister Malfoy," the man nodded and continued on his way.

"Harry," Ron hissed. "Come on!"

Harry dove into the lift and they were whisked to the archives. Old Paul was sitting exactly where they had left him. He was reviewing a copy of "King Lear," and murmuring as he read. He looked up and spoke without greeting.

_"Howl, howl, howl, howl! Oh, you are men of stones._  
_Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so_  
_That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone forever._  
_I know when one is dead and when one lives._  
_She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass._  
_If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,_  
_Why then, she lives."_

He exhaled in a gust and sagged forward in his chair. "I've lived one hundred and twelve years," he said softly. "I've buried friends and loves alike, never to see them again. If I could solve the cipher to just this one passage..."

"What is it?" Hermione sat next to the elderly man and touched his shoulder.

"Very powerful magic, Miss Granger. One that can bring the dead back to life."

Harry's heart panged. His whole life he had yearned for one thing, his parents' lives restored. He would have given anything for the chance to see them, touch them, speak to them. If this coded spell could...

"That's madness," Ron said. "Why would Shakespeare hide something so important in a play?"

"The spell is too powerful," Old Paul said. "Even as I myself would use it, I know it should never be used. A major theme of King Lear is grief and loss, that all of us, the noble and the devious, will eventually meet the same fate. And those who survive must continue, even in the shadow of grief. The desire to oppose the natural order of death is one we must not pursue."

They were all silent, thinking of their own losses, of the spell that lay before Old Paul, intricately encoded in iambic pentameter, never to be reassembled into usable form.

"This Shakespeare bloke seems like a right bastard," Ron said. "Can we forget King Lear and talk about getting Harry out of this mess?"

"Ron," Hermione hissed.

"I understand," the old man waved the manuscript aside.

Harry sat across from him, a bit embarrassed by the way he had stormed out the day before. "Sir, my friends told me that you thought we might not need a counter-curse."

"_God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another,_" Old Paul smiled.

"I didn't give myself another," Harry grumbled, "Voldemort did."

"Not all Shakespearean spells need counter-spells to resolve," Old Paul scanned the parchments before him and summoned one. "A page from 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' A sleep spell triggered by an unfortunate wizard in London last November. Delivered by the Dark Lord as 'Steal Me Awhile':

_"And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye,_  
_Steal me awhile from mine own company."_

"The poor man slept through Christmas," Old Paul waved the parchment away. "It occurred to us that the passage refers to the temporary nature of sleep. So we countered with a temporal spell designed to wake one at a specified hour of the morning, and by Merlin's hand he awoke!"

"So," Harry's heart lifted, "is there a transfiguration spell that could change me back?"

"The clue to your curse is in the passage, as are all Shakespearean spells," Old Paul waved over a different parchment. "_My only love sprung from my only hate._"

He sat back in his leather chair and studied Harry with his cloudy eyes. Around them the murmur of other archivists and visitors whispered through the stacks. When he spoke again the three friends jumped.

"It seems to me that the spell may be broken if you learn to love your enemy, to release your hate. Only then will the spell lose its power and dissipate."

"No!" Harry exclaimed. "Absolutely not. That's impossible. Hermione, tell him. What he's asking is impossible."

"Draco Malfoy is truly horrible," Hermione nodded miserably. "How anyone could learn to love him, or even like him, is beyond me."

"Harry already thinks he's fit," Ron blurted out. "Isn't that enough?"

"Ron," Harry whipped around to make sure no one else heard.

A smile spread across Old Paul's wrinkled face.

_"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,_  
_And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."_

"Well then it's impossible," Harry said. "I know his mind. It's beyond forgiveness, much less lovable."

"Thank you so much for your time," Hermione touched Old Paul's arm. "You are very kind to offer your help."

Harry and Ron added a hasty thanks of their own and the three friends headed back towards the elevator. Suddenly Ron shoved Harry through a gap in the stacks to the next aisle.

"Ron, what are—" Harry's words were cut off by a familiar voice.

"I need to speak to Madam Wordsworm," the posh tone of the demand set Harry's perfectly aligned teeth on edge.

"Mister Malfoy, we have nothing more to discuss," the grand witch swept up a side aisle and by the sound of it backed him towards the lift. Harry was grateful for her intervention. The angled arrangement of the stacks offered him just enough concealment to stay hidden if Draco didn't get too close.

"My father's solicitor is holding out," Draco snapped. "It's extortion, is what it is. But if you would agree to testify to the authenticity of the ledgers he could be compelled to release them by order of the Wizengamot."

"I can do no such thing," the Head Archivist said. "I cannot testify to the authenticity of documents I haven't seen. They would need to be evaluated first."

"But we can't evaluate them without conceding to his demands," for a moment the sharp edge in Draco's voice faltered and took on a plaintive note. "I just want to help, can't you see that?"

"That remains to be seen," Madam Wordsworm was not swayed by his plea. "I'm afraid I can't help you. Good day."

She strode back down the aisle, leaving Draco standing at the lifts. Harry peeked between a pair of books and spied him looking lost and defeated, his head bowed in thought. Hermione and Ron were standing to the side, staring openly at him.

"What are you looking at?" Draco snapped. "Enjoying my failure?"

"No," Hermione said. "It's just—"

"It must be a dream come true to see me denied the one time I'm trying to help." His bitterness was palpable. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't, it should say that on the Malfoy family crest."

Hermione tried again, "No, I—"

"And where's Saint Potter?" Draco peered around. Harry ducked, although the chance of Draco spotting him between the books seemed slim. "I'll bet golden boy would love seeing me denied the chance to help with the Shakespearean curses."

_What?_

Harry jumped up and peered through the books again. What did he know? What did Lucius' solicitor have? _Speak up, Hermione!_

"Harry—"

"Again?" Draco interrupted. "Are you under a curse of your own, Granger? You do know who I am, don't you?"

"No, I—"

"I have to go," Draco pressed the call button for the lift. "I need to speak with Gringotts about financing the salvation of the wizarding world." His voice dropped in defeat. "Just like always, Saint Potter did it on skill alone, but if I want to play I'll have to buy my way in."

_Ouch._

The lift arrived and he departed, releasing Harry from captivity. He joined his friends and called the lift again.

"He's onto something," Hermione broke the silence.

"Sounds like it."

"We should help him."

"In what way?"

"I need to think. Come over to our flat for supper tonight, okay?" Hermione slipped her arm through Ron's elbow and stepped into the lift. "Are you coming?"

"I'm going to wait another minute to give Malfoy a chance to clear out," Harry said.

"We'll see you later, then," Hermione waved, and then the lift doors closed and they were gone.

_"She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce."_

"Pardon?" Harry turned but there was no one behind him. That was strange, he could have sworn he'd heard the voice of Old Paul.

**oOo**

Harry stepped through the Floo at half past six and arrived at Ron and Hermione's living room in a whirl of emerald flames. At half past six and one minute Ginny Weasley stepped through behind him.

"Oh, hey Ginny," Ron called from the kitchen. "Don't worry, that's—"

_Smack!_

Harry staggered backwards and landed with a thump on the sofa. He rubbed his cheek and blinked hard to hold back stung tears.

"Why do people keep doing that?" he whined.

"Ginny, stop!" Ron rushed out of the kitchen to restrain her. "That's Harry. He's been cursed to look like Malfoy."

Ginny stared at Harry, who was dressed in a burgundy shirt with the word "Gryffindor" stenciled in gold across the chest, and shook her head in disbelief. "I don't know what to say," she breathed.

"You could start with sorry," Harry waggled his jaw to make sure he wasn't injured.

"I'm sorry, but you can't blame me for being confused," she sat next to him and stared at him in amazement. "It's bloody indistinguishable, isn't it?"

"Yes, well, if you're ever confused just remember I'm the one with the red, stinging, hand-shaped welt on my face."

"I said I was sorry."

"Come eat," Hermione called.

She quickly rearranged the table settings to accommodate Ginny's drop-in and served up heaping bowls of curry. Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that he couldn't manage the spices anymore so he picked at it and took tiny bites.

"I used coconut milk so you shouldn't have any problems with it," Hermione said. She looked knowingly at Ginny. "Draco Malfoy is lactose intolerant."

Harry set his fork down and got up from the table. He went to the window and grasped the frame, tears stinging in his eyes that he didn't want his friends to see.

"What is it?" Hermione asked. "Are you allergic to coconut now, too?"

Harry struggled to control his voice. "You're accommodating me," he said. "You're accommodating this change. Our lives are adjusting to make room for this."

"Well what was I supposed to do, pour you a big glass of milk?"

"No," a tear stubbornly refused to be withheld and trailed down his pale cheek.

"Then what do you want me to do?" Hermione got up and crossed the room to hug him around the waist.

"You're getting used to it," another tear escaped. "I'm getting used to it. Yesterday you couldn't look at me, and today you're hugging me."

"Tell me what you want me to do," Hermione said into his ribs. She squeezed him so tightly that he had to struggle to breathe. "Help me fix this for you."

_And though she be but little, she is fierce_, Harry thought.

"Tell me what you think Old Paul meant," he said. "Whatever it is, I'll do it."

Hermione released him and studied his face for a moment. Then she led him to the sofa and sat him down. "You need to go to Draco. You need to show him what happened. And you need to find something in him that you can care for. Something that erases the hate."

"You're mad," Harry's eyes bugged out. "I thought we would do some kind of thought exercise where we would talk through our feelings or something. You want me to meet with him? That's madness!"

"_Though this be madness, yet there is method in it_," Hermione said with a smile. "'Hamlet.' I've been reading."

"Of course you have." Harry sighed.

"Tomorrow we'll go to Malfoy Manor and you can tell Draco what happened," Hermione said. "He won't want you wearing his face any more than you want to wear it. And if all else fails you can offer to help with his solicitor problems."

"I don't know that I can help him with his solicitor problems."

"But you can try. He's desperate enough that I'll bet he'll take you up on your offer."

"So the plan is that I go hang out with him, discover something redeemable in him, stop hating him, and the curse breaks?"

"That's the plan," she nodded.

"I don't envy you," Ron said from the dining table, where he and his sister were still eating their curry.

Harry sighed, his stomach filled with sick dread. "I don't envy me either."


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Harry dressed in a burgundy buttondown shirt—he'd never noticed how much red was in his wardrobe before—and muggle jeans. He jammed his feet into his trainers and ate a small breakfast while he waited for his friends to show up.

They stepped through unannounced as usual, and didn't even raise an eyebrow at his pale face and blond hair. That was what scared Harry, that every day they were more and more accepting that this was him. He felt himself getting lost in this body, accustomed to its shape and appearance. He didn't want it to fit like a comfortable old jumper. He wanted it to itch and chafe like never-worn formalwear.

He jammed his knit cap over his head and threw his peacoat on. As an afterthought he added a scarf.

"Ready?" Ron asked.

"No."

"Let's go," Hermione held out both elbows for her friends to grasp. With a whisk and a squeeze they Apparated outside of the gates of Malfoy Manor. Harry was overcome by the panicked urge to Disapparate back to his flat.

"Don't you dare," Hermione seized his arm. "You have to do this."

"I can't," Harry looked to Ron for support but he was just as determined as his girlfriend.

"Come on, mate," he said seriously. "I miss your face."

Harry's throat tightened. "Me too."

They walked up the drive towards the looming mansion. Harry wrapped his scarf around his face to conceal everything below his eyes, then pulled his cap down to his eyebrows. He secretly hoped Draco was out for the day.

They alighted the front steps and Hermione rang the doorbell. A house elf answered and stared up at them with bewildered deference.

"Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and, um, Harry Potter," Hermione glanced back and noticed Harry's concealment. "To see Draco Malfoy."

The elf nodded and closed the door. The three friends shifted awkwardly and wondered whether the elf had gone looking for his master or whether they'd been summarily dismissed. A moment later the door swung open again, and Draco Malfoy himself stared out at them.

He wore a slim-cut black undershirt and gray trousers, with black stocking feet poking out below. He blinked in confusion and shook his head.

"Weasley, you really must have her head examined," Draco said.

"Harry needs your help," Hermione blurted out.

"Right," he leaned in the doorway. "A bit more information than that, please."

"He was struck by a Shakespearean curse," Ron said. "We were clearing Knockturn alley and he triggered one with his foot."

"Is that Potter there?" he nodded at Harry, who stood as far back on front steps as he could. "Why is he wrapped up like a mummy? Did it make him grotesque?"

"Sort of," Ron shrugged. Hermione jabbed him with her elbow.

"How can I help?" Draco inspected his fingernails as though bored. Harry didn't believe a bit of it, he could tell Draco's interest was piqued.

"We think he needs to get to know you. Learn how to," Hermione grimaced, "not hate you."

"Why me?"

"Because it's linked to you."

Draco stood up straight now, his eyes wide. "Linked how?"

"Harry, show him," Ron waved him forward.

Harry didn't move.

"Harry, come on."

"I can't," Harry mumbled through his scarf. "It's too humiliating."

Draco stepped out of the house and crept towards Harry as though he were a bomb with a hair trigger. "What are you hiding under there, Potter?"

"I can't," Harry gripped the scarf and shook his head.

"Where are your glasses?" Draco paused. "And what happened to the colour of your eyes..."

Harry could see that it was dawning on Draco in alternating increments of belief and disbelief. He clutched the scarf tighter. He couldn't do this.

"It can't be," Draco whispered. His hand darted out and he yanked Harry's knit cap free, then staggered back at the sight of his white-blond hair. "No!"

Harry ducked and ran back down the drive towards the road. The grounds were charmed with an anti-Apparition spell so his only chance of escape was beyond the gates.

Feet pounded after him and then he was tackled from behind, sending him sprawling to the ground with Draco on top of him. He fought to keep his scarf in place but Draco had leverage and managed to yank it free. He froze in utter shock at the sight.

"No!" Harry recovered the scarf and pressed it to his face. His totally wrong, stolen face.

"Get out of my body, Potter!" Draco seized his shoulders and shook him hard. "How dare you impersonate me!"

Hermione and Ron ran to them and hauled back on Draco to break his grip. Harry scrambled out from beneath him, losing his hold on the scarf.

They paused, chests heaving, staring at each other with identical faces. Draco's pupils had shrunk to terrified pinpoints. Harry recognized that look. He'd seen it himself in the mirror.

"You're cursed to look like me?" Draco finally managed. "And there's no counter-curse?"

"Not yet." Ron said.

"Well I don't care!" Draco protested. "Do something! Polyjuice him! Transfigure him into a violin for all I care!"

"It seems a bit resistant to magical solutions," Hermione said gently. "That's why we're here."

"Well," Draco stared at Harry, his horror receding slowly, "there has to be something we can do. Because this is not okay."

"Tell me about it," Harry said.

"You've spoken with the Ministry Archivists?" He looked up at Hermione.

"No one knows the cipher for 'Romeo and Juliet,'" Hermione said.

"My father's ledgers," Draco said. "If I could get them, we could break it."

"Why would your father have the ciphers?" Ron asked.

Draco climbed to his feet and stared down at Harry in bewilderment. He offered his hand and Harry reluctantly accepted his help. Draco seized his chin and inspected his face, top to bottom and all over.

"You look exactly like me," he murmured in wonder. "What was the spell called?"

"My Only Hate," Harry said.

"That voice," Draco released him. "That's Potter, all right." He stepped back, then stepped back again. He scratched his head and seemed unable to figure out where to look. "Let's go inside."

Harry could think of nowhere he'd like to go less than inside Malfoy Manor.

But inside they went and sat in the parlor while a house elf poured tea. Harry and Draco sat at opposite ends of the sofa, trying not to look at each other.

"So you came to me hoping to use my father's ledgers to break the curse," Draco sat back and sipped his tea. "Unfortunately they're not in my possession and my efforts to acquire them have been stymied by my father's solicitor. He sees this as an opportunity to profit."

"We heard you mention that yesterday," Hermione said.

Draco looked up at Harry in surprise, "Were you there yesterday?"

"I was hiding in the stacks," Harry nodded miserably.

"What about the day before?" Draco inhaled sharply and turned on Hermione. "That's why you called me Harry."

"Right," she said. "He was behind the planter."

"You went out in public in my face?" Draco shook his head at Harry. "What gives you that right?"

"I had no choice," Harry said. "I needed to talk to the archivist to see if there was a way to break it."

"He doesn't have the cipher," Hermione said. "But he did suggest a way to break it without one."

"The learning not to hate me thing," Draco nodded. "Got it."

"I don't like it any more than you do," Harry said. "But imagine if it was you who had triggered the curse. Would you want to be stuck wearing my face?"

Draco leaned on his hand and studied him thoughtfully. "It's an academic question, Potter. If I had triggered the curse I wouldn't have turned into you."

"You wouldn't?" Ron furrowed his brow.

"If it's a question of turning into my one true hate, you don't rank at the top of that list," Draco said.

"Oh," Harry was confused.

"But point taken," Draco said. "I wouldn't want to be stuck as you in any circumstance. What do you need me to do?"

_Not act like a gaping, bleeding arsehole._

"I don't know," Harry said aloud.

"Let him get to know you," Hermione jumped in. "Let him see who you really are. Surely you've got some redeeming qualities." She didn't quite successfully keep the dubious note out of her voice.

"Surely," Draco snorted. He stood and indicated the door. "All right then. If you'll take your leave of us we can get on with it. Make with the friendly chit-chat, as it were."

"You're not leaving me here," Harry followed Ron and Hermione to the door. "You can't leave me like this." He waved his hands to encompass his appearance and his surroundings and his companion.

"You'll be fine, Harry," Hermione looked back and forth between them. "Merlin, if I didn't know which clothing you were dressed in, I wouldn't know which one was you."

Harry swallowed a scream.

Hermione hugged him goodbye and Ron pumped his hand once, and then they were gone. And Harry was like a child left in the care of the worst nanny in England.

A snarl crossed Draco's face. He seized Harry's collar and shoved him up against the wall. "Let me see your chest," he growled.

Harry shoved him back and lifted his shirt to expose the scar that marked him from shoulder to hip. Draco gazed at it for a moment and then nodded, the malice gone from his face.

"It's real, then," he said. "I thought maybe it was a trick." He strode away and called over his shoulder. "But I have it on good authority that Polyjuice doesn't replicate Sectumsempra scars."

Harry wished he had looked when he'd experimented with Hermione's Polyjuice.

That incident was probably best left unmentioned.

**oOo**

"How is your quiche?"

"Pardon?"

"I said, how is your quiche?"

"Oh. It's good."

"Pardon?"

Harry set his fork down in annoyance and glared down the long formal dining table at Draco at the other end.

Lunch had been mostly silent, a necessity given the absurdly extended room where words melted into a wash of reverberation and the lights barely illuminated enough to see distance clearly. Harry wished he had a pair of Omnioculars just to make a point of the ridiculous dining arrangement.

"I said its good," he repeated louder.

"Oh. Good." Draco went back to eating.

Harry looked around at the dark stone columns and beams and the monstrous fireplace. Not a single cheery accent dared encroach upon this morbid space.

"Is this where you usually dine?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

Harry pushed his chair back with a screech and seized his plate and fork, then marched down the length of the table to take the seat to Draco's right.

"I said, is this where you usually dine?" Harry jabbed his quiche and popped a bite into his mouth.

Draco cocked his head in mild amusement. "No," he said slowly. "I usually take my meals on the veranda."

"That would be fine by me," Harry said. "For future reference."

A blond hair swung free from his forelock and dangled before his eyes. Before he could toss it back Draco reached up and caught it between two fingers, then gently smoothed it back from his face. Harry suppressed a shudder.

"It is incredibly disorienting to look at you," Draco murmured. "I know that's not me. But it's me."

"You can imagine what it feels like to look in the mirror," Harry said.

"You could do worse."

"I could do worse," Harry agreed.

Draco set his fork down and pushed his plate aside. He studied Harry closely, tracing the lines of his face with his eyes, studying every bit of detail. Harry stared back, captivated by the scrutiny, even though he knew Draco wasn't thinking about him. He was studying himself from afar.

"I've never liked my chin," Draco said. "But it's my mother's. And I've got so little of her in me." He sighed and shook his head. "Too much of my father."

"Your chin is fine," Harry touched his face. "It's a little on the pointy side but overall you're put together well."

"Put together well," Draco smirked. "Like a device."

"You know what I mean," Harry pushed his plate away, too.

"Done? Come on, then."

Draco led him from the dining room to the stairs, then up to the master suite. He threw open a series of wardrobes with a wandless sweep of his hand and stepped back.

"If you're going to get to know me, you've got to stop resisting being me," he said. "Dress like I would dress."

"You don't think that would be strange?" Harry asked.

"Of course it's strange," Draco said. "Everything about this is strange. But you don't stop hating me by dressing like a Gryffindor. It's like an act of rebellion." He pulled out a black shirt and gray trousers. "Start with these."

Harry sighed and unbuttoned his shirt. For once he wasn't self-conscious about being seen in Draco's skin. After all, Draco knew it better than anyone.

"You gave me that scar, you know," Draco sat on the edge of his bed and watched.

"I know."

"It's like a permanent reminder of your hatred for me."

Harry yanked the burgundy shirt off and glared at him. "You shot at me first."

"Self-defense."

"That's what the Sectumsempra was."

"If you say so."

Harry turned and picked up the black shirt, but before he could slip it over his head Draco was at his side, tracing fingers down his back. Goosebumps immediately flared to life down Harry's arms.

"M-Malfoy—" he stammered.

"They're really visible, aren't they?" Draco murmured. "I assume you've seen the scars in the mirror."

"I know about them," Harry nodded. He had forgotten about the scars. "I guessed you'd gotten the belt a few times."

"How did you know?" Draco looked up in surprise.

Harry turned to face him. "I got the belt, too. My legs, although never badly enough for scars."

Draco nodded silently and turned away. "Well look at that," he said. "Our first thing we have in common." He returned to the bed and stared out of the window while Harry finished changing.

He checked his reflection with all of the dismay he had anticipated. He was dressed exactly like Draco now so that they matched from head to foot. Black shirt, gray trousers, black socks.

"Now really," Harry sighed, "does it help matters if I'm dressed identically to you?"

"Probably not," Draco rose to inspect him. "But it amuses me."

Once again he smoothed Harry's hair down with his fingers, eliciting another spate of goosebumps. Then he led Harry downstairs. They walked through the manor, and Harry recalled the unpleasantness of his last visit to the property, during the war. Draco didn't avoid the subject, he spoke openly about the horrors that took place during those dark days.

"This room had to be stripped down to the walls and subfloor," Draco pointed at a small sitting room on the back of the house. "There was so much blood that it simply wouldn't come clean." His voice was even, it didn't sound like he was trying to impress Harry or ask for sympathy. He kept his expression neutral. "This was my playroom when I was very young. I had a hobby horse that flew like a broomstick in here. I had a little chair where I learned to read. I had a big, clockwork dragon that really roared and blew smoke rings. All destroyed."

"Your parents didn't move your childhood things out of here before, you know," Harry couldn't finish the sentence.

"My parents didn't do a lot of things before, you know," Draco said flatly.

"I'm sorry," Harry said.

"For what? You didn't have anything to do with it," Draco continued down the hall.

"I'm sorry it happened to you."

"You don't have to be sorry."

"I know I don't have to," Harry smiled. "But I am."

Draco stopped and stared at him for a moment, eyes tracking over Harry's face.

"What?" Harry wanted to shy away.

"I think you make me look different," Draco said. "You smile a lot, even at me. And when you said you're sorry, you looked," he struggled for words, "I don't know. Different. Not like what I see in the mirror."

"You used to smile a lot," Harry said, but didn't point out that it was rarely in Harry's direction.

"I used to do a lot of things," Draco said. He looked like he wanted to say more, but held back and continued with the tour. "This linen closet is where I used to hide sweets when my mother told me I couldn't have any more."

"You used to be a bully," Harry blurted out, unable to move beyond his last thought. "You used to be cruel and you used to enjoy it."

Draco watched his face again, studying him closely. He nodded. "I used to do a lot of things."

They decided to take their tea out on the veranda, where a warming charm around the edge of the property kept the cold January wind out and allowed them to relax without jackets or shoes. Harry sank into his cushioned seat and propped his feet up on an ottoman. The grounds were in full-bloom, the grass was lush, and the flowering trees filled the air with the heady sweetness of spring. Albino peacocks strutted around the grounds, yelping and showing their plumage, and Harry realized in amazement that this was _normal_ for Draco. This was his normal. Of all absurd things, dining on a veranda outside of a mansion, watching tropical birds was normal.

"Have you always lived like this?" he asked.

"No," Draco said. "I used to have a family."

"I mean, peacocks and a giant house and tea on the veranda, that sort of thing."

"I suppose so."

"You know this isn't normal, right?"

"I realize very little of my life seems normal," Draco said. "Not everyone had a loving aunt and uncle to take them in and give them a normal life."

"Loving?" Harry could hardly believe his ears. "They hated me."

"Right," Draco rolled his eyes.

"No really, they bloody well hated me," Harry insisted. "And they made sure I knew it."

"But they took you in as a baby, didn't they?" Draco looked confused.

"Out of obligation," Harry shook his head in amazement. "If you'd even seen five minutes of my life with them you'd know know it was definitely not loving, and certainly not normal. At least I hope not." He sat back in his chair and pondered the idea. "I mean, I hope it's not normal for other kids to live that way."

"So neither one of us knows what normal is," Draco sipped his tea. "That's two things we have in common."

They were quiet for a while, and Harry thought that perhaps he had offended Draco with his speculations about normalcy. He hoped he still wanted to help. Perhaps it was already helping. He wasn't sure he could still say that he hated Draco at this point, talking together like rational people had sort of robbed him of the simplicity of hate. But he certainly wasn't sure he liked him yet. How far did the curse expect him to go?

"_How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes,_" Draco murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Shakespeare," Draco shrugged. "I was just thinking that I never hated you more than when I thought you were happy."

"That was obvious," Harry grumbled.

"I thought you had a soft life," Draco continued. "I was never more jealous than when I imagined your happiness."

Harry didn't know what to say. He watched his fingers trace the edge of his teacup and said nothing. Draco set down his saucer and pushed himself to his feet.

"Come on, you handsome bastard, let's go inside," he said as though he hadn't just shared a deep, personal confession.

Harry didn't know what else to do so he set his cup down and did as he was told. They plodded through the morose dining room, past the formal parlor, down the hall, and into a dim and musty office.

"Why are you acting so reasonable about this?" Harry demanded as he followed his twin.

"Fear not, Potter," Draco said. "I'm panicking on the inside."

"No, I mean why are you being reasonable to me?" Harry asked. "Not being cruel."

Draco sat at a large ebony desk and withdrew a leather-bound ledger from one of the drawers. For a moment Harry thought he wouldn't get an answer. But Draco finally looked up and sighed.

"Maybe I can't be cruel to myself," he said.

"I'm not you."

"Obviously."

"Well I've had to remind quite a few people lately," Harry flopped into a leather wingback chair and watched Draco thumb through the book. "What is that?"

"A cipher log for 'Much Ado About Nothing,'" Draco said. "It's the only one I have. My father's solicitor has the others, along with the rest of his materials that were entrusted to him when the trials began." He shook his head. "I tried to enlist the help of the Ministry Head Archivist to compel the release of the ledgers, but since they have a copy of the Much Ado cipher, too, they don't think it's proof that my father had the rest."

"Wait a moment," Harry dragged the heavy chair up to the desk and canted his head to see the writing. "Are you telling me your father deciphered Shakespeare's works?"

"Of course not," Draco snorted. "The Dark Lord did. He gave them to my father to protect during the war."

The blond hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end. "So Lucius' solicitor has a cipher log for 'Romeo and Juliet.'"

Draco looked up. Their identical faces registered the same grim understanding. "It would seem so."

"How do we get it back?" Harry asked.

"If I knew that we wouldn't be sitting here together like mates, would we?" Draco said. "I'd have the counter-curse cracked and you would be transformed and on your way by now."

"Trust me, I want that more than you do," Harry said.

"Oh come on," Draco leaned back and steepled his fingers. "You're not enjoying life without glasses?"

"Actually, I've been carrying them around in case I get changed back unexpectedly," Harry plucked his glasses from his pocket and set them on the desk.

Draco reached out and hesitated. "May I?" he asked.

"Go ahead," Harry was curious to see why Draco wanted look at them. As he understood it Draco loathed his glasses as an inseparable part of his being, and he half-expected him to smash them immediately.

But he didn't smash them. He lifted them gently and turned them over in his hands. He raised the bows and traced a finger along the curve that would encircle Harry's ear. Then, of all unexpected things, he slipped them onto his face.

"Your eyesight is terrible," he said. "Do they suit me?"

"No."

"I wouldn't think so," Draco chuckled softly and slipped them off. "Thank you."

"For what?" Harry pocketed his glasses again.

"For letting me handle them." Draco said. He pushed the ledger across the desk and rose to his feet. "Read all you like. I'm going to fire-call my solicitor."

He strode across the library and paused in the doorway without looking back.

"Potter," he said. "I'm sorry I ever made fun of your glasses."


	7. Chapter 7

Hours later Harry looked up and rubbed his aching neck. He had scoured every encoded spell in the play but discovered nothing that would help him. He watched his pale fingers trace along the inscribed lines of ink and felt a wave of anxiety about the lessening frequency with which he noticed them.

_Don't get used to it. You are Harry Potter. Your fingers aren't graceful, your hair isn't neat, you are not a Malfoy._

"Much Ado About Nothing" contained some interesting spells, one of which stood out to him in particular. The Dark Lord had scribbled notes in the margins of the ledger, declaring it an act of folly, one that relied on the weakness of the one who wielded it. He had only partially applied the cipher to translate the passage into a spell before abandoning it as useless.

It was short but sweet in sentiment. Harry scanned it over and over and read it softly out loud.

_"Serve God, love me, and mend."_

It was a healing spell, he was certain. But he wasn't sure he understood what Voldemort had meant by weakness. Was that simply a reflection of his distaste for love? In which case the spell was probably worth knowing, if a man of Voldemort's philosophy had rejected it.

He dug around in the desk drawers until he found a scrap of paper and a quill, then scratched out the line, the cipher, and the partially translated note. He paused only long enough to notice that his handwriting was wrong, then jammed the paper into his pocket and stood with a great number of cracking joints.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, you clatter like castanets," Harry muttered.

He checked the time and was surprised to see how much had passed. Where had Draco gone? A quick perusal of the first floor yielded nothing. He passed a house elf here and there who each addressed him as the lord of the manor. It didn't seem necessary to correct their mistake.

Upstairs he found Draco in his master suite, lying in bed and gazing at the ceiling. Harry knocked softly as he let himself in. Belatedly he realized Hermione and Ron might not be the only ones with poor boundaries. Sure, he'd knocked, but only as the tiniest show of manners.

Draco glanced at him and chuckled softly. "It's so strange to see myself like this."

"Try seeing—"

"Yes, I understand fully that it is strange for you, too," Draco sat up and moved a book from his lap to the bedside table.

"What is that?"

"'Romeo and Juliet,'" Draco held it up. "Just the text, no cipher notes. I've been reading a lot of Shakespeare lately, trying to see what the Dark Lord saw. The ciphers are there, but seeing them is the trouble."

Harry sat in a chair beside the bed and said nothing. Draco narrowed his eyes.

"It feels like I'm seeing what my father saw. Holed up in his home, consumed by his delusions of power, and there enters his son," he frowned. "Not the person he was supposed to be."

"Your father was proud of you," Harry said.

"No he wasn't," Draco snorted. "When it came down to it, I didn't want what he wanted, and where he expected success, I delivered failure."

"Not killing Professor Dumbledore wasn't a failure," Harry said. "Your father or Voldemort may have thought so, but they were wrong. You were right."

Draco fiddled with the book in his lap. "I know."

They were quiet for a while, each remembering that night. Harry wondered if Draco knew that he had been there, but it seemed like the wrong time to ask.

"Show me your arm."

Harry was startled out of his reverie. "Which one?"

"The right one. Did the spell give you my Dark Mark scar?"

"Yes," Harry pulled up his sleeve and held his arm out for inspection.

Draco captured his wrist and pulled him onto the bed before pushing his own sleeve up past the elbow. He scooted right up next to Harry so that their hips and shoulders and feet were touching, then he pressed their forearms next to each other so he could see the marks side by side.

"Absolutely alike," he murmured.

He graced his fingertips across the slight discolouration where the mark used to be. He wasn't restrained with his contact, he leaned his weight against Harry and seemed comfortable. His touch slowed and he stroked the pad of his thumb across Harry's skin, almost like a caress. Harry could feel Draco's breath on his neck. His cock, completely unconcerned by the weirdness of the situation, firmed up in response. He pulled away and huddled on the edge of the bed, embarrassed that he'd reacted to his touch.

Draco watched him squirm and appeared uncomfortable now, too. His hands and eyes were restless, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Let's change your hair," he said suddenly. "I need you to look less like me and more like you."

"Yes please," Harry said.

Draco sat him in a low-backed chair and studied him from above. He checked a spell book, stood before him and recited an incantation three times, and then worked a bit of product through before stepping back to judge his work.

"Glasses," he held his hand out. Harry handed them over.

Draco carefully popped out the lenses and then slipped them over Harry's ears. When he was done he handed over a mirror.

_That's just absurd._

Harry's hair was now black and styled with product to look like a messy thicket of unkempt locks. And his glasses now framed his eyes as they should.

But none of it looked right. His skin tone was too pale to pull off black hair. The messiness was too structured and instead made him look frightened. And the shape of the frames were all wrong for the lines of his face.

He set the mirror down. "Somehow it's worse."

"Agreed," Draco grimaced, "but it doesn't feel as disorienting to look at you now. So maybe you should keep it that way."

"I'm not leaving this house like this," Harry pocketed his lenses. "If we have to go anywhere I'm changing it all back."

"Fine."

They went downstairs to find an owl waiting for Draco with a note from his solicitors. He read it, cursed, and dashed off an angry response. He reread the message, crumpled it into a ball, paced and fumed, then scribbled out another one. When he went to lash it to the owl's leg he was rough and had to fend off an assault of beak and talons, which only made him angrier. He walked away, took a breath, then set his jaw and returned for another try. This time he managed to get it tied on and released the owl with a string of profanity.

This Draco, the one frustrated by the world around him, angry and rash, this was the one Harry recognized. His previously mellow demeanor stood out in stark contrast to the one Harry faced now.

Draco paced back and forth across the parlor as the owl ascended into the afternoon sky. "They're my father's possessions!" he barked. "They're rightfully mine now." He paused to watch the owl's receding silhouette. "It's letting him win, Potter. Don't you get that? Even if we figure out workaround spells for all of the curses, he still wins. Because he did this to us, and he took the secret of the Shakespearean ciphers to his grave."

Harry realized belatedly that he was speaking of Voldemort. For a moment he wasn't sure whether he meant his father would win. It struck him for the first time ever that for Draco the distinction may have been fine. His father's obsession with the Dark Lord must have felt like he was ever-present.

"Is that why you're helping?" Harry asked.

"Is what?"

"You were trying to help the Ministry with the curses before you found out about me," Harry pointed out. "Are you helping because you don't want to see Voldemort get away with it?"

Draco goggled at him like he was dense. "Of course that's why I'm trying to help. Isn't that obvious?"

"Well," Harry shifted uncomfortably. "No."

Draco's anger evaporated and was replaced by a sag of defeat. He looked away and shook his head. "You never figured out that once i saw it I didn't want it anymore, did you?"

Harry felt terrible. "Sort of, I guess. I mean I wondered but I didn't know for sure."

Draco sighed, his gaze still averted. "And that's why I'm your only hate," he said flatly. He walked out of the room and left Harry stinging with the truth, as surely as if he had been slapped across the face.

**oOo**

Supper was tense. Harry moved his place setting down near Draco's end of the table, but his rival refused to look at him and had little to say. Harry noticed that there was no dairy anywhere in the meal and wondered if he should mention that he knew about the lactose intolerance. The closed-off frown on Draco's face told him to save it.

After supper Draco showed him to a guest suite on the opposite end of the hall from his own bedroom. Without so much as a good evening he departed for the night.

Sleep was elusive. Harry tossed and turned and chewed his lip—Draco's lip—as their earlier conversation rolled over and over in his mind. And every time he drifted off he was jerked back to consciousness by the dry-leaves rustle of Old Paul's voice.

_"Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably."_

He rolled over and punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape.

_"The course of true love never did run smooth."_

He flipped onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head—Draco's head—to block out the sound. But the sound came from within.

_"Lord, what fools these mortals be!"_

He tossed the covers back and planted his feet—Draco's feet—on the floor, then went straight from his bed to the master suite. This time he remembered his manners and waited after he knocked.

"Come in."

Harry slipped through the door and found Draco looking as wide awake as he was. He knelt at the side of the bed and took Draco's hand in his.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know you turned away from the dark path. I didn't want to believe it, it was easier to hate you if I didn't. I needed to hate you, Malfoy, after all of those years of bullying and anger. But I don't need that hatred anymore. I don't hate you. I'm sorry I ever did."

Draco stared at him with wide eyes. He swallowed and nodded and left his hand in Harry's.

"I'm sorry I ever hated you, too," he said softly. "It wasn't until I got what I thought I wanted that I realized how wrong I was about everything. Probation gave me time to think, and I realized I hadn't hated you for a long time. It surprised me to hear that you still hated me."

"You're just such a prat," Harry laughed weakly. "It's hard to separate that from your actions."

"_Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me,_" Draco said.

"'Much Ado About Nothing,'" Harry recognized the line from his reading earlier in the day. "Is that a coded spell?"

"No," Draco smiled. "It's just poetry."

Harry was overcome by an enormous yawn and excused himself for the night. He felt good, optimistic that he had released his hate for Draco Malfoy. Surely the spell was weakening if he could make such a tremendous change. As he laid in bed and drifted off to sleep he thought about waking up to his own face.


	8. Chapter 8

"Bollocks."

Not only did he not have his own face, but his hair had somehow reverted to blond while he slept. He slouched downstairs for breakfast in the robe Draco had lent him and wondered what it would take to convince the spell that his feelings truly had changed.

Draco was already seated at the table, fully dressed and ready to meet the day. This time the seat next to him was set for a meal, which meant Harry wouldn't have to pointedly move from the end of the table.

"You changed it back," he said, raising his teacup to his lips.

"I didn't," Harry said. "It changed itself back overnight."

"Stubborn curse," Draco said. "Looks like you'll just have to get used to being me. It will be great, you can go to all of the social functions I don't want to attend."

Harry spluttered his tea and barely cradled the cup back down to the table. "What? No! I can't stay like this! I want my face back! I want my body back!"

"Relax," Draco touched the back of his hand. "I was only joking."

Harry would have thought something about Draco thinking highly of his own sense of humour but he was distracted by the touch. He wasn't sure Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had ever touched in anything but anger before. Other than last night.

He looked up into Draco's confused eyes and knew it was strange for him, too. At least for Harry he was looking out from the wrong face and seeing the person he expected to see. When Draco looked at Harry he saw only himself reflected back.

They decided to spend the day getting to know each other better in the hopes of convincing the spell to depart on its own. They sat out on the veranda and watched the albino peacocks strut around the grounds as they talked their way through their first meeting and every subsequent encounter since. They uncovered hurt and anger that dated back nearly a decade but did their best to talk through it as adults.

Some early memories they agreed had to be let go of without resolution, because the subjectivity of a child's mind is nothing to rationalize with. Other memories were harder. They couldn't simply be let go.

"You're honestly telling me that after days of living with that scar you don't see how much worse it was than anything I did?" Draco demanded as a house elf set out their lunch.

"The only reason it's worse is because it was successful," Harry shot back. "If anything you had attempted went as planned, you would have been much guiltier than me."

"Everything I did was done under duress," Draco said. "What about you?"

"You attacked me first, you wanker!" Harry shouted. "I thought you were trying to kill me!"

He sat back and blew a lock of blond hair out of his eyes. He had been so close to forgiveness last night, but now he was angry again. Draco sipped his tea and scowled. They sat in sullen silence and glared at the peacocks, even though they had done nothing to earn their contempt.

"I was trying to kill you," Draco said finally, his tone carefully controlled. "But I would have never forgiven myself if I had."

"I used a spell I didn't fully understand to defend myself," Harry admitted. "It was worse than anything you threw at me."

They watched the peacocks less angrily now. Harry ate his sandwich and thought about how he felt. Was he back to hatred? No, not hatred. In fact he actually felt a bit closer to Draco for having talked, and even for having argued. With words, actual words! No hexes!

"Is it possible for us to simply apologize for everything and call it bygones?" Draco asked. He peeked at Harry from the corner of his eye. "I'm content to secretly blame you for everything that went wrong in my life."

"What?" Harry looked up in surprise. Draco was smirking devilishly. "Ha ha you think you're so bloody funny."

"Shake on it?" Draco offered his hand.

Harry sighed. "Deal."

Instead of accepting Harry's proffered right hand in a shake, Draco clasped Harry's left and let it dangle between them. Harry's stomach felt funny. He peeked at his sandwich but there was no cheese on it. The funny feeling must have had something to do with his hand. Which Draco was still holding.

"Malfoy."

"It's strange, I know," Draco said, gazing across the garden. "Probably a bit taboo if you look at it from the outside. But I don't feel you letting go."

_True. But it's still mad._

They sat quietly for a while, fingers still intertwined, Harry's mind spinning in circles. Was this another joke? Draco was so enamoured of his own sense of humour, always had been. If this was a joke...

"Malfoy, I swear-"

_"O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,_  
_That monthly changes in her circle orb,_  
_Lest that thy love prove likewise variable."_

Draco spoke as though in a dream. "'Romeo and Juliet,' same as your curse."

"Love?" Harry's stomach hitched.

"Do you know the full passage that your curse is from?"

In fact, Harry did remember.

_"My only love sprung from my only hate!_  
_Too early seen unknown, and known too late!_  
_Prodigious birth of love it is to me,_  
_That I must love a loathed enemy."_

"Love a loathed enemy," Draco said. "I don't think it's enough for you to stop hating me."

"But-"

"I know what you're thinking," Draco interrupted him, his cheeks blushing. "But if you inhabit my body, surely you've noticed its preferences. It shouldn't be as bad as if we were both straight."

_Oh. OH._

"Er," Harry squirmed uncomfortably but didn't let go of Draco's hand. "I hadn't noticed."

"Then you've borrowed everything but my libido," Draco said.

"No," Harry squeezed his fingers. "I sort of, you know. There was nothing to change."

"Oh. OH."

"Right," Harry flushed red from his chest to his temples.

They were quiet for a while. Two peacocks chased each other around the fountain and a third called its ridiculous yelp from the top of a topiary.

"This isn't strange for you?" Harry asked. "If I sit very still I can imagine I'm still me and you're you and this isn't a weird sort of incest thing. But for you—"

"Don't use that word," Draco flinched. "I'm trying not to think about it. I'm trying not to look at you. If I look at you it terrifies me."

"Sorry."

"It's not incest."

"I know."

"It's not. You've been cursed, temporarily I might add, to look like me," Draco added. "From the outside I'm sure it looks wrong, but it isn't really. It's what the spell wants, anyway."

The peacocks began a plumage war and brandished their tail feathers at each other. The absurdity broke the tension a bit.

"If this is us as Romeo and Juliet, you're definitely Juliet," Draco blurted out.

"Not bloody likely," Harry snorted. "I'm definitely Romeo."

"Please," Draco snorted back.

"Besides, we're nothing like Romeo and Juliet," Harry said, remembering Hermione's ridiculous conjecture. "I have no intention of killing myself over you."

The house elf reappeared and cleared the dishes away. If he noticed that he had two masters who were holding hands, he didn't show it.

"Besides, if we're anyone, we're Benedick and Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing." Harry added. "We hate each other, but we're being forced together against our wills. You're Beatrice. You make a joke out of everything and you'd rather be snide than let someone care for you. And you think you're hilarious."

Draco laughed and nodded, "You may be onto something, Potter. I am Beatrice."

Harry couldn't help smiling. It was actually quite nice, getting on as they were. "_Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity._"

Draco's smile grew. "_I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption._"

Harry finished the exchange without thinking, "_Peace. I will stop your mouth._"

Draco's face flushed a deep red again and he let go of Harry's hand. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and rubbed his neck.

"Sorry," Harry realized belatedly what he had said. "I was just quoting the play."

"So you don't want to kiss me," Draco said, his face still averted.

"Well," it was Harry's turn to shift uncomfortably. "I mean, ordinarily I would consider something like that, you know, something I would consider."

"Since when?"

"Since when what?"

"Since when have you considered kissing me?" Draco asked.

"Since," Harry took a breath. "Remember, I hated you until very recently, so this is purely about physical attraction."

"Understood. How long?"

"How long have we known each other?" Harry said weakly. There it was, the most vulnerable admission yet. If Draco wanted to he could strike Harry down viciously.

"Damn it, Potter," Draco swept his hand out and captured Harry's again. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Because I hated you."

Draco still wouldn't look at him. "And now that you're able to admit it, I'm unable to do anything about it because you're wearing my sodding face."

"I know," Harry imagined how hard it would be to feel turned on by someone who looked exactly like himself. But he was disappointed. Because he very much wanted to touch Draco. "What if you closed your eyes?"

"Don't be daft," Draco shook his head sharply.

They watched the peacocks in silence again. Harry soothed his aching yearning by reminding himself that it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Resolving old feuds didn't suddenly make them compatible. It was probably better if they didn't kiss. Yes, the best decision they could make would be to avoid kissing at all costs.

"Let's try it with our eyes closed," Draco said.

"Okay," Harry scooted his chair over and leaned in.

"Hang on," Draco's eyelids were screwed shut and his breath was coming in short gasps. Harry recognized anxiety when he saw it.

"It's okay," he said softly. He drew a finger down Draco's cheek and shoved a thought aside that said the finger was technically Draco's finger. What was the point of playing academics about it? If he was Harry on the inside, wasn't that what mattered?

Draco's breathing slowed and the tension around his mouth relaxed. He kept his eyes closed and reached blindly for Harry's shoulders. Harry tipped his chin up, took a breath, and kissed him.

A thousand fireworks went off in Harry's brain. His brain, not Draco's brain, the part of himself that had remained one hundred percent purely Harry Potter. He pressed deeper and kissed Draco again, their similar mouths working against each other, and Merlin's pants, there was that tongue. The tongue Harry had fantasized about for years. Pliable, sensual, everything he had ever hoped it would be.

Too soon Draco pulled away, his eyes screwed tightly again. He sat back and held Harry's arms at bay.

"Give me a minute," he whispered.

Harry sat back and watched him talk himself down from the confusion that he could only imagine. How much of that confusion had to do with Harry's appearance, and how much of it had to do with just him, the idea of Harry himself? Was it that Draco had to talk himself into accepting Harry in this way? He realized Draco hadn't answered his own question. How long had he been attracted to Harry?

_Wait a minute._

Draco had never actually said he was attracted to Harry at all. What if this was only possible because he wasn't himself anymore? He realized with crushing dismay that this could be more humiliating than showing up in public wearing Draco Malfoy's face.

"What's wrong?" Draco asked, his eyes still closed. "You're breathing fast."

Harry stood and walked to the edge of the veranda and waited for the jumble of fear and hurt and anger and disappointment to gel into a thought.

"Do you like me?" He managed just four coherent words.

"Like you how?"

"Are you," he had a hard time saying it. "Attracted to me?"

"Of course not."

Bile rose in Harry's throat. Fucking Malfoy. Why couldn't he just be a normal person with empathy and human emotions? Why did he have to be a sociopath? Harry was a fool to forgive him—

"You look exactly like me, Potter. How am I supposed to be attracted to you?"

_Hang on._

"No," Harry held the turmoil at bay. "I mean the real me. Black hair, green eyes, glasses, you know."

"Of course I am," Draco sounded offended that he was even asking. "Haven't you figured that out yet? Did you think this was all just an act of selective narcissism?"

"Well," Harry returned to his chair and sat down heavily. "You didn't say it."

"Potter," Draco groped blindly for his hands. "Do you think I would be sitting here with my eyes closed like some kind of berk if I weren't trying my best to imagine it's really you, the real you?"

"How long?" Harry's breath and heart dangled in the space between them.

"Always, Potter," Draco said softly. "Since always."

Harry leaned in and kissed him again, and this time there was no reluctance on the other side. Draco pressed back and clung to his arms like he could prevent a retreat. It was marvelous, passionate and sensual, and Harry's cock showed its approval by saluting their efforts.

It was going well until Harry leaned too far forward and his chair toppled, dropping them both to the flagstone floor in an unceremonious heap. Draco mashed his hands against his eyes.

"Don't let me look," he begged. "Help me up. Take me upstairs."

Harry didn't have to be told twice. He braced Draco around his waist and led him carefully up the back stairs and steered him to the master suite. Once there he hesitated, not sure what to do next. Was he implicitly invited? Because it seemed Draco wouldn't say anything explicitly. Prat.

"Go out into the hall and wait," Draco ordered. "Don't leave, just wait for me."

Harry let go and zipped out of the room. Being told not to leave was almost as good as being asked to stay. His mouth salivated and his cock pushed urgently against the inside of his trousers. Surely he wouldn't be left waiting long.

He wondered if he had gone mad, overwhelmed by the promise of what may lay ahead, feverish with desire and nearly panicked by the short delay. He passed his hand across his forehead to check for fever but he knew he couldn't be ill.

_"Love is merely a madness and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do, and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love, too."_

From nowhere the dry croon of Old Paul's voice filled his head, and while he appreciated the sentiment he hoped the elderly man would keep his witticisms to himself during the upcoming events. Or rather, what he hoped were the upcoming events.

"Potter, are you still there? You can come back in."

Harry burst through the master suite door so fast that be would have left a Harry-shaped hole in the wood if it were locked.

_Sweet sons of Merlin._

Draco was lying in bed, naked from the waist up and concealed by a satin sheet from the waist down. His cock raised an impressive peak in the fabric, a sight that drew a needy grunt from Harry's throat. A green and black striped tie was knotted tightly around Draco's eyes, the excess length dangling from his temple.

"I hope this isn't too presumptuous," Draco said. And by gods was his voice a bit nervous?

Hearing the shyness in Draco's tone quieted Harry's nerves. He drew his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor, then kicked off the rest with a sweep of his leg. Draco's face turned to follow him as he crossed the room, and then his whole body jolted as Harry climbed into bed. He slid closer beneath the sheets until they were pressed up against each other in one long line from their shoulders to their thighs to their toes.

"Hi." Harry ran his thumb down Draco's jaw to his pointed chin.

"Hello." Draco's formal greeting made Harry laugh.

"It's okay," he said. "We'll take it slow."

"Top or bottom?" Draco blurted out.

"That's not taking it slow."

"I prefer to top," Draco said. "What about you?"

"I enjoy bottoming." Harry ran his hand down Draco's chest to try to distract him. His fingers skipped over the dip of the Sectumsempra scar.

"Yes, but I don't," Draco said.

"You don't have to."

"No, Potter, you're not listening. My body usually doesn't."

"Oh. Good point." Harry frowned. Draco was right. His body wouldn't be accustomed to penetration like Harry's own body was. "Like I said, we'll have to take it slow." He dipped his mouth to kiss Draco on the neck.

"You might not enjoy it."

"Enjoyment is in the mind," Harry kissed a line up to Draco's earlobe.

"Well it's at least partially up your arse, too," Draco said sharply.

Harry pulled away and frowned. "If you don't want to do this—"

"No, I do, I do," Draco grabbed his arm so he couldn't leave. "I'm just nervous. For whatever rubbish reason my brain has decided to fixate on."

"It's just me," Harry leaned forward and tried again. He ghosted his lips across Draco's, eliciting a gasp that made him smile. "Just boring old Harry Potter, everything but the glasses," he brushed Draco's lips again. "Perhaps just freshly returned from Quidditch practice, just put my gear away, and we have the changing room to ourselves—"

Draco pushed hard into Harry's mouth and moaned as their tongues slipped together. Hands collided and groped, and before he knew what was happening Draco had him rolled over onto his back, their cocks nestled against each other between the heat of their bodies.

Harry arched into Draco's touch, explosive sensations ricocheting around among every erogenous zone. Now that he had his rhythm Draco moved with confidence, stroking a finger around Harry's nipple and burying his mouth in Harry's collarbone. Harry wanted to give as well as he took but he found himself completely at the mercy of the other man's touch. He quivered and gasped when Draco swept a hand down to caress his bollocks. His toes curled involuntarily when Draco glided his hand up Harry's shaft and drifted back down again.

Not to be outdone he seized Draco's mouth in his own and rocked him to the side to free his arm, then stroked his cock in long, confident strokes. Now it was Draco's turn to gasp and exhale in a low moan that sent an ache through Harry's body from his groin to his head.

It was more than he could resist. He rolled Draco fully onto his back and lapped his way down his body, stopping off to pluck each nipple with his teeth, then continued down past his navel until his cock bobbed before his eyes. Trying not to think about whose tongue was whose, he licked the vee of the head and without hesitation he drew the full length of Draco's shaft into his mouth.

Draco bucked reflexively, and Harry was grateful for his current body's lack of a gag reflex. He gently pressed Draco's hips back down to the mattress and drew up to the head with a luxurious pull.

"S-sorry," Draco stammered. He groped for Harry's head, but shied away from the silky texture of his hair.

Harry went in deep before Draco could be distracted and drew up the length again. Draco flung his arms wide and clutched the blankets in delirious agony. Harry worked slowly so as not to push him over the edge yet, up and down, no rush.

"Potter," Draco gasped. "Come here."

Harry released him and mouthed his way back up, tasting every bit of his skin along the journey. Draco clutched at him and pulled him in for a desperate kiss, then flopped them over in reverse so he was on top. He was panting, frantic, blindfolded, and in need. He worked his hand down and caressed Harry's arse, slowly tracing his fingers in smaller and smaller concentric circles until he grazed across his furrowed entrance.

Harry went limp, his muscles cut loose from his control as every synapse in his brain fired in response to the touch. Draco whispered a lubrication charm, then kissed him and pressed gently, very slowly parting him and slipping in just the tiniest amount.

"It's okay," Harry grunted. His body certainly wasn't used to it, but he suspected Draco's hesitance reflected his own personal reluctance.

Draco kissed him again and pushed deeper until finally he could go no further. He stroked with a light touch, his other hand busy stroking Harry's cock. When he was able, he added a second finger and started the process again, encouraging Harry's unaccustomed muscles to relax. Slowly they made their way to three and Harry thought his head might explode with need.

"Please," he whispered into Draco's mouth.

Draco nodded blindly, the tie still knotted firmly around his eyes. He whispered a protection charm and withdrew, and then he was pressing against Harry's opening and slowly entering.

Harry gritted his teeth and nodded. He remembered this, back during the summer when his first and only adult relationship had finally led to sex. The sensation of being filled, of an enormous pressure and muscles that took great care to coax into acceptance, it was like experiencing that first time all over again.

Because, in a way, it was.

Draco finally paused, as deep as he could go, his breath shuddering and short. Harry curled his arms around his back and pulled him in close.

"It's okay," he whispered. "It's me. Just think of me."

"Harry," Draco breathed. He began to push, just a bit at first as Harry became accustomed to the sensation.

"Kiss me," Harry drew Draco's mouth down to his own and curled his legs around his back.

Draco moved a bit more now, and Harry's body started to wake up and take notice. Yes, this was good. It was a relief to know that it felt good, no matter whose body he inhabited. He laughed between gasps and squeezed his legs tighter.

Draco finally smiled, palpably relieved to hear Harry enjoying himself. He pushed up and grasped Harry's cock in his fist, pulling in rhythm with his hips.

The heat built between them, and soon Harry was too entangled in the rising climax to laugh. He clung to Draco and prayed he wouldn't stop or slow down. Draco felt him tense and stroked in shorter pulls, his mouth agape and his breath coming in shallow pants.

It boiled up on Harry first, driving his hips up off of the mattress, his leg muscles contracting and pushing Draco in as deep as he could go. He hung in space as a spark ignited a torrent of climax that tore from his throat and spilled from his cock like his life force was leaving him. Draco cried out and pumped furiously, emptying his load in convulsing pulses.

Finally they both released and lay together, their breath heaving and their hearts pounding. Draco withdrew and Harry cast a wandless clean-up charm so Draco wouldn't have to try to aim blindly.

Draco slid to the side and nestled his face into the crook of Harry's neck, still catching his breath and beyond words. His hand trailed down from Harry's shoulder and glanced off of the groove of his Sectumsempra scar. His whole body jolted in surprise but Harry captured his fingers and pressed them to his lips.

"Stay here," Harry whispered against his knuckles. "It's just me. It's just Harry."

Draco nodded and allowed himself to be pulled into his embrace, although his arms were stiff and his back was rigid. Harry moved his hand down to curl around his waist instead. Slowly Draco relaxed and settled in more comfortably.

"We should get you some cologne," Draco murmured, his voice sleepy.

"Do I stink?"

"You always stink, Potter. But what I mean is, if you were you you would smell like you."

"I am me."

"Your body isn't," Draco nuzzled in closer. "You've got my body, which smells like me."

"How can you tell?"

"Because I can't smell you," Draco said as though it should be obvious. "You smell like me, but since I can't smell myself, I can't smell you."

Harry tugged at the loose end of the tie, "you're a complete nutter."

"Don't," Draco snatched the tie end back. "Let me keep the illusion. I don't want to go down to supper, I just want to sleep and dream that you're you, and I'm me, and everything is put to rights."

"Okay," Harry kissed the top of his head.

They were quiet for a while, drifting in and out of sleep as late afternoon turned into evening outside. When Draco spoke Harry wasn't sure whether he was actually hearing him.

_"We are such stuff_  
_As dreams are made on, and our little life_  
_Is rounded with a sleep."_

Harry buried his nose in Draco's hair and inhaled, and wondered whether he was right about personal scents. He could detect very little when he sniffed. He raised his arm to his face and sniffed it, too. It was impossible to know if they matched.

His heart sank. He didn't want to match. He would have given anything to bury his nose in Draco's hair and inhale the unique maleness of him, but until the curse was straightened out he would just have to imagine it.

But then, he thought, surely the curse was near its breaking point. He no longer hated Draco, that was certain. And while he wouldn't call what had just happened making love...

_Well, why not?_

It was something, at least. It was a deeply intimate connection. He felt closer to Draco than he would have ever thought possible. But it would be silly to think there was more to it when all they'd done was talk through childhood hurts. That wasn't the same as getting to know each other now, finding out how compatible they were now. That would take time. And if what the spell wanted was more than what they had now, more time was what they would need. Which meant more time in Draco Malfoy's body.

No, surely this was what the spell was looking for. Harry decided that he would sleep, and when he awoke the spell would surely be broken.

Surely it would.


	9. Chapter 9

"Potter,"

Harry's eyes popped open. Draco lay in bed beside him, tired gray eyes and tousled blond hair, and completely naked.

"Hello," he said awkwardly.

"Hello?" Draco curled his lip in a sneer. "Is that how you say good morning?"

"Good morning," Harry yawned and propped himself up on his elbows so he could look down at his body.

Sectumsempra scar.

"Fucking hell," he cursed. "I'm still you!"

"Don't say it like that."

"You know what I mean. I still look like you." Harry flopped back on his pillow and groaned. "What does this bloody curse want from me?"

"I realize it's upsetting but think about how I feel," Draco snapped. "I'm the one who fucked myself in the arse last night," his face flushed crimson.

"No you didn't," Harry sighed.

"Yes I did. I now know exactly what the size and shape of my own arse feels like," Draco's voice rose. "And for what? You're still me!"

Harry reached for him but Draco slapped his hand away. They grappled for a moment, two identical men fighting over the right to offer comfort or suffer in solitude. Finally Harry gave up and rolled out of bed.

"We have to go see Old Paul," he said as he yanked his red y-fronts on.

"We can't be seen in public together," Draco rolled out of bed now, too. "And you're not going out as me without a shower and clean clothes."

Harry flopped his head back and groaned. "Okay fine."

They each showered and donned typical dark colours, although this time Draco didn't want to dress exactly alike. At breakfast they bickered over whether they should travel separately or together, and then again when Harry said he wanted to send an owl to Hermione and Ron and meet them there.

"What does any of this have to do with them?" Draco demanded.

"They're my friends," Harry glared at him over his toast. "Where are yours in your time of need?"

"Pansy and Blaise aren't talking to me right now," Draco frowned. "Something about visiting Hogsmeade without them."

A piece of bread caught in Harry's throat. Draco gave him a withering look as he coughed.

"I see," he said. "That was you."

"I tried not to run into anyone I knew. You knew. Either one of us knew," Harry said.

"People are going to stare," Draco said. "This is how rumors get started. People will want to know why I have a twin."

"Ignore them," Harry said. "I've been you at the Ministry, I've seen how people look at you. Surely you've learned to ignore them."

"Sort of," Draco's irritation faded away. He fiddled around with his spoon. "Not really."

Harry felt his annoyance fade, too. He slipped his hand over Draco's and held tight when he tried to pull away. "Does it hurt?"

"Of course it does," Draco snapped. Then he looked up guiltily and sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Harry returned his sigh and voiced his worries from the previous night. "It's going to take more getting to know each other than one day."

"What if we're not meant to get along?" Draco asked.

"Maybe we're not," Harry smiled. "But that shouldn't stand in the way of love. Come on, Beatrice."

He dragged Draco from the room and sent off for Hermione and Ron. When Draco was done fussing over Harry's hair and making sure he reflected perfectly upon his borrowed identity, they both took a deep breath and stepped through the Floo.

Harry arrived first with Draco at his heels. They hesitated for a moment, their matching blond heads swiveling as they scanned the corridor for familiar faces. Assured that they wouldn't be immediately accosted, they set off for the lifts.

It didn't take long to raise the attention of those around them. It started as a murmur and a glance here and there, but quickly escalated to unconcealed gawking. Harry pretended not to notice. He could tell Draco was doing the same, and wondered how long ago he had perfected the act.

They waited at the lift, each nodding politely as wide-eyed wizards stumbled at the sight of them together. Neither spoke, in a silent agreement to simply act as though nothing was amiss.

"There they are. Harry!" Hermione's voice echoed down the atrium.

Harry decided not to turn until Draco did. Draco peeked at him from the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. That was better, Harry thought. An improvement over his nerves so far.

"Harry," Hermione ran up behind them and stopped. "Um. Draco?"

They turned together. Harry did his best to mirror the raised eyebrow and contemptuous sneer that Draco put on for effect. Hermione and Ron stared at them, back and forth and back again, stunned into speechlessness. Hermione squinted at Draco and touched his arm.

"Harry?" she asked.

"Guess again," Draco drawled.

"Harry?" she turned and tried again.

"Well I'm your only other option," Harry finally relaxed and grinned. Hermione exhaled and fanned herself in relief, her shoulders rounded sheepishly. Even Draco smiled, although he curled his hand around his mouth to hide it.

Ron stood a few steps back, the only one not laughing. "So it's a joke now?" he asked. "It's supposed to be funny?"

"Well what can we do, Ron?" Harry shrugged. "Don't be cross. We were just having some fun."

"Is that what you do now, have some fun with Malfoy?" Ron's eyes flicked in Draco's direction but didn't linger.

"What is your problem?" Suddenly Harry didn't feel like laughing. "Burying the hatchet was your idea."

"Burying the hatchet doesn't mean not fire-calling for two days."

"Jealous, Weasley?" Draco smirked.

Harry backhanded him across the shoulder. "Be nice."

"So have you buried the hatchet?" Hermione asked. "I guess it wasn't enough to break the curse."

"Clearly not." Draco said.

"Then let's not just stand here," Hermione darted forward and pressed the lift call button. She and Ron stood between Harry and Draco.

"It's like having an escort," Ron murmured in her ear. "Or bookends."

"You're hilarious, Weasley," Draco said.

They stepped into the lift and were whisked away to the archive where a bustle of activity replaced the quiet rumble that usually filled the space. Hermione tried to grab the attention of the archivists who flitted past but none stopped. Finally she spotted Madam Wordsworm.

"What happened?" She grasped the older woman's arm.

"Miss Granger," her cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Something incredible has happened. Old Paul may have cracked the 'Macbeth' cipher. Come quickly."

They rushed down the narrow aisle between the stacks and emerged into a crowd that clustered around the elderly man's table. He held a quill in one hand and his wand in the other. His mouth worked silently as he tapped and counted meter, then he scribbled on a parchment. It wasn't 'Romeo and Juliet,' but Harry was on pins and needles anyway. If a Shakespearean cipher could be cracked today, he could hold out hope for a counter-curse tomorrow.

Old Paul set down his quill and looked up. "What's done is done." The crowd hushed.

"Is that the spell?" Ron asked, breaking the silence.

Old Paul's voice rose up in a warbly cry:

_"Stars, hide your fires;_  
_Let not light see my black and deep desires._  
_The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be_  
_Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see."_

He bent over his parchment and read, then hefted his wand. One of the younger archivists stepped forward to volunteer as the target. Harry grasped Draco's hand and was relieved when the pressure was returned.

"Exoptant videre lux," Old Paul swished and flicked in a bobbing, rhythmic pattern.

A flash leapt from his wand and struck the young man in the chest, then regathered and coalesced in the air before him. As the crowd watched an image played out like a motion picture, depicting the young man copying out of archive materials and publishing a spell book under his own name.

The man's eyes bugged out, his hands waving in protest as the image faded and dispersed. Madam Wordsworm asked for him to be taken into holding until they had a chance to question him. He didn't fight, he simply followed two other archivists into a back room with his head bowed in defeat.

"What happened?" Harry asked. The crowd around them began to thin as excited researchers gathered a stack of Old Paul's parchments and retreated to do their own work.

"The spell reveals the victim's darkest secret desire," Old Paul said in his dry, dusty voice. "That young man wished to abuse his access privileges to publish archived spells as his own. That is a serious infraction against the Ministry."

"But he volunteered," Hermione shook her head in wonder. "Didn't he know he would be exposed?"

"For many of us here, solving the Shakespearean ciphers is more important than personal achievement," Madam Wordsworm reappeared behind them. Hermione and Ron turned around and glimpsed Harry and Draco holding hands before they let go.

"So is that it? The spells of 'Macbeth' are now deciphered?" Ron asked, although his eyes lingered on Harry, filled with confusion and betrayal.

"Not quite," Old Paul cleared his throat. "The cipher must be applied across the entirety of the work, one spell extracted at a time, like picking mushrooms out of stew."

They stared at him blankly.

"I dislike mushrooms greatly," Old Paul raised his chin in proud defiance.

"But does this mean you're closer to figuring out the other ciphers?" Harry asked. "Like 'Romeo and Juliet,' for example."

"I'm afraid not," the elderly man shook his head. "I've personally worked on 'Macbeth' since nineteen twenty eight. It's impossible to know when a cipher will finally be cracked."

"Then," Harry sat down across from the man. "What about trying to break the curse on our own? We've tried everything. I don't hate Malfoy anymore. He doesn't hate me. I might even see being friends with him. I," he took a shuddering breath and forced the words out. "I can feel myself caring for him. So why hasn't it broken yet?"

"Perhaps it is not enough," Old Paul said.

"Not enough, in what way?" Draco asked.

"_My only love sprung from my only hate,_" Old Paul said. "The answer is in the passage itself."

Harry sat back and let his words ricochet around in his head. He looked up at Draco and met a similarly introspective expression. He felt certain that Draco was drawing the same conclusion he was.

**oOo**

Draco stepped out of the Floo, followed by Harry. They both kicked their shoes off and then peeled their sport coats off. Then as one they flopped onto the sofa. Draco glared at Harry.

"Stop copying me," he grumbled.

"I would if I could."

Draco sighed and gazed at the four stocking feet on the floor. His eyes traveled up the length of Harry's body to the top of his head.

"What's it like?"

"Like being trapped," Harry said with honest misery. "Like you've totally lost control over who you are, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"I can't imagine," Draco murmured. He laughed bitterly and looked away. "Actually I was going to say I can imagine, but it seems trite to compare what I went through with this."

"Trying to steal my thunder?" Harry joked weakly.

Draco smiled and then his face crumpled. He buried his face in his hand with a shuddering sigh. Harry was instantly alarmed.

"What is it?" He slid over on the cushion and curled his arm around Draco's shoulder.

"It's nothing," Draco rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He grimaced and swallowed hard and shoved the emotion down. "It's just..."

Harry waited patiently as Draco summoned the courage to continue. When he spoke his voice was flat, lifeless.

"What I experienced was a nightmare," he said. "It was like waking up every day to a nightmare. And no matter how badly I wanted it to end, it kept going without my choice in the matter. Just an unending," he trembled, "nightmare."

"I can imagine," Harry hugged him closer.

"But you," Draco's voice tightened. "Your nightmare is," he pressed his hand to his mouth and stopped. He took a breath and spoke flatly again. "Your nightmare is being me."

"Malfoy," Harry wrapped his other arm around him and held him close. "I won't lie, it felt like a nightmare at first. But it had more to do with being anyone but myself. Being you was just sort of the icing on the cake." He chuckled. "Bitter icing on a rubbish cake."

"You're a poet, Potter," Draco mumbled.

"Besides, I could have done a lot worse," Harry added with a grin. "As it turns out I get to spend time as a very fit bloke. It's nice being handsome for a change."

"For a change?" Draco snorted. "I always suspected you didn't own a mirror. Now I know it's true."

"Why, because I'm so messy?"

"Yes that, and the fact that you don't know how fit you are."

"Yeah?" The grin spread across Harry's face. He couldn't play it cool even if he wanted to. He dipped his mouth and kissed Draco behind his ear, his hand sliding across his stomach to pull him in closer.

"Potter," Draco groaned.

"Do you want me to get your necktie?" Harry murmured in his ear.

"No," Draco pulled away. "I want you to be you."

"I am me."

"You know what I mean."

"So you're saying you can't be with me until I'm changed back?" Harry's heart dropped. "Malfoy, I don't know how long that will take. Or if it will ever happen. What if it never happens? What if the curse outlives us? You're saying you couldn't figure out how to put my looks aside?"

"Don't say it like it's just a matter of attraction," Draco crammed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "You're me, when I look in the mirror or when I look at you, it's the same. It's only your voice that's different."

"And my mind."

"Well, yes. But I can't see that."

"Then there's no hope for me," Harry stood and went to the window. "I think Old Paul may be right. The curse wants more from me. It's not enough to stop hating you. It's not enough to like you, or even to make love to you. I have to," he forced the difficult words out, "fall in love with you." He looked down at his pale, graceful fingers and thought about how long it had been since he took notice of them. "_My only love sprung from my only hate._"

"You don't just decide to fall in love with someone," Draco said.

"True," Harry shrugged. "But what if I said I thought it was possible?"

Draco was quiet for a moment. Harry was afraid to turn around and look.

"You truly are Juliet," he said bitterly. "We've barely gotten to know each other beyond our school rivalry. How can it already be possible?"

"I don't know," Harry mumbled. "I just feel something in my heart. Like it might be possible."

"Well that's just dandy, isn't it?" Draco was on his feet now, suddenly enraged. "Saint Potter gets to look out from the inside and fall in love without any kind of mental crisis. I, on the other hand, don't have a chance in hell, because every time I look at you I see myself looking back. And if I touch you, if I even _want_ to touch you, I have to wonder what kind of sick, twisted arsehole I am for touching my own sodding body! You get to fall in love! What about me?"

"Well," Harry finally turned to look at him. "Are you saying it would be possible if not for my appearance?"

"Of course that's what I'm saying! Aren't you listening?" Draco threw his hands up in the air. "What are you grinning at, you berk?"

"Because it's possible," Harry's grin practically split his face.

"But it's not," Draco rolled his head back in exasperation. "That's what I'm saying!"

"I get it," Harry said. "It's not possible because of how I look. But if I looked like myself, it would be possible."

Draco goggled at him cockeyed. "Yes, well, if you want to say it that way."

Harry threw his arms out wide,

_"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;_  
_And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind."_

Draco's eyes bugged out further. "What are you getting at? That doesn't change a thing!"

"It changes everything!" Harry laughed. "It means I wanted to fall in love with you so I could change back. Now I want to change back so you can fall in love with me."

Draco's mouth snapped shut.

_I finally figured out how to silence you, Malfoy._

"That doesn't change anything, Potter," he finally said. "We still don't have the ciphers. My father's Solicitor does."

"Then let's get them back."

"I've done everything I can. He won't give them back."

"You've done everything a Slytherin can do," Harry corrected him. "You've tried power, influence, manipulation, and money."

"Well what else is there?" Draco looked sincerely baffled.

"Malfoy, my friend," Harry grinned, "it's time you gave being a Gryffindor a try."


	10. Chapter 10

Harry stepped out into the Ministry atrium and checked around for familiar faces. No one yet. He straightened his suit coat, smoothed back his blond hair, and headed off down the corridor towards the lifts. He knew Draco would step through exactly two minutes later, dressed in precisely the same outfit. He would take a right and head up the corridor towards the visitor entrance.

He waited patiently by the planter with his wand resting comfortably in his hand. A few moments later a lift arrived and Hermione stepped out. She did not look directly at him or pause, but she passed close enough to whisper.

"Floors one through three are clear," she hissed and continued on her way.

Harry swished and captured her words in a bubble, then sent it whizzing down the corridor. And then he waited some more. The lift doors open and Ron stepped out. He passed by without looking at Harry and whispered, too.

"Floors four through seven are clear." Another bubble whizzed away.

Harry called a lift and descended to the first floor, where administrative offices dominated the floor plan. He turned left as he stepped out and and strode down a side hallway towards the private solicitor offices, leased to those who worked frequently enough with the Ministry to warrant working onsite. If everything was on schedule Draco would be closing in from his position to wait near the lifts on the Atrium level.

He found Lucius' solicitor's office with its door closed but the light on inside. The lettering on the glass read, "Eugene T. Peabody, Esq."

Harry muttered a wandless spell and touched the wood panel of the door and listened. He could just make out the shuffle and scratch of an occupied office. So he waited.

The clock ticked over to six o'clock and a silhouette beyond the glass stood and approached. Harry took his position in the middle of the corridor with his hands clasped behind his back. He settled his expression into an emotionless mask and waited.

"Oh!" Mr. Peabody jumped as he opened his office door. "Mr. Malfoy, I didn't know you were there."

He waved his hand and warded his office door, then tried to step past Harry. Harry didn't budge, but he did notice that the solicitor clutched his ledger close to his chest. He wouldn't be so daft as to carry such a valuable artifact with him, would he?

"Mr. Malfoy," he cleared his throat. "If I may pass..."

"You know why I'm here," Harry said, affecting Draco's posh, bored tone.

"My office hours end at precisely six o'clock, I'm afraid," the small man lifted his chin. "Please return tomorrow at nine if you wish to discuss it further."

"We will discuss it now," Harry said. He wasn't imagining it, the man was squeezing his ledger as though it might escape on its own.

"If you are restraining me against my will—"

"Not at all," Harry stepped aside and let him pass. The man hustled along with a furtive glance over his shoulder. As soon as he was around the corner he sent a whisper in a bubble speeding along to Draco's ear.

Then he waited. With luck Mr Peabody would be encountering the real Draco Malfoy at the lifts momentarily. He fiddled with his wand and tried to break the ward on the office door but it was too strong. A bubble appeared and popped by his ear.

"Floo. The ledger is suspicious."

Harry Disapparated and landed before the long bank of emerald flamed fireplaces. A pair of Ministry administrators huffed at him for the impolite sudden appearance, but he ignored them and waited. Sure enough Mr. Peabody came hustling up the hall.

He skidded to a halt and whipped around, then back to stare at Harry. He regathered his composure and seized a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into a fireplace. He muttered his destination and with one last glare over his shoulder, he stepped through, revealing Ron, who had crept up behind him. He waved Harry forward and crammed a handful of powder at him.

"Public Floo, East Dulwich. Wait," he grabbed Harry's arm. "Which one are you?"

"I'm Harry," he grinned, then shoved the powder back into Ron's hand. "I know where that is. I'll go directly."

He Apparated in an alleyway next door to the abandoned shopfront that concealed the East Dulwich public Floo from muggle discovery. He stepped out calmly onto the sidewalk and waited. What if he'd hesitated too long, what if Mr. Peabody had arrived and then changed his mind and went elsewhere? Behind him he heard the distinct pop of an Apparation and waved for Draco to hide himself.

Just then Mr. Peabody emerged from the abandoned shopfront and startled again.

"Mister Malfoy, I will not be intimidated!" he yelped. He turned and marched away down the road as quickly as he could. Harry glanced back down the alley and gestured in the direction he went. Draco nodded and Disapparated.

Mr. Peabody turned the corner at the end of the block and a yelp echoed down the road. Harry tucked himself back into the alley and waited. A moment later another bubble showed up.

Pop. "Dark mark time, Flying Pig pub."

Harry knew exactly where that was. The sun was below the rooftops now, and the January air was cold enough to fog his breath. This would be advantageous. He Apparated behind the Flying Pig and listened for approaching footsteps. Mr. Peabody was running now, and when Harry stepped out of the shadows he shouted and nearly dropped his ledger.

Harry raised his right arm but did not fold back his sleeve. Emulating the Death Eaters he had seen during the war he hovered his left hand over his arm and scowled. "Do you know whose work you carry, Mr. Peabody?"

"What are you doing? You can't do that!" The solicitor whirled around and checked behind him for help but the road was deserted.

"But I can," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous. "Would you like me to show you?"

"The Dark Lord is dead!" The man backed away, his voice trembling with fear.

"Would you like to meet him?" Harry's left hand trembled now, as though summoning demanded great effort. "Would you like to explain how you came into possession of his life's work?"

"This isn't his work," the solicitor backed away another step. He looked down at the ledger, confirming that it was what they were looking for. "This is Lucius Malfoy's work."

"You are a fool," Harry said. He took a deep breath and furrowed his brow, a hum resonating in his throat.

"No! Get away!" Mr. Peabody screeched and ran across the street towards a pedestrian tunnel that ran beneath a raised roadway.

Harry sent off a bubble and heard the distant sound of an Apparation echo from the other end of the tunnel. Mr. Peabody screamed.

"Would you like to meet him, Mr. Peabody?" Draco's voice resonated off of the arched passage walls. Harry crept up to the opening and peered in. He took his position as Draco raised his left hand over his right forearm.

"Get away from me!" Mr. Peabody whirled around to run and spotted Harry behind him. "No!" he shrieked.

"The Dark Lord wants his possessions back," Harry said, he crept forward to close the distance between them. The solicitor whirled around and was faced with Draco.

"The Dark Lord does not look lightly upon theft of his work," Draco said. His silver eyes flashed in the darkness of the underpass and Harry had to admire his acting.

"Please, I'll do anything," Mr. Peabody begged. "Just let me go." He turned back to Harry. "Please!"

Harry extended his right arm and tipped his head back. "He is coming," he intoned, then reeled off a string of phrases in Parseltongue. It was mostly formal greetings and observations about the weather, but he knew how it would sound.

Mr. Peabody scrambled back and ran smack into Draco's chest. He shoved the ledger into Draco's hands and wept openly for mercy.

"They're yours, take them. Please, make it stop!" he cried.

Harry paused in the middle of reciting a recipe for rat stew and waited. Draco grasped the ledger and tugged, then settled it in his arms with a glower.

"Leave now before I am Imperiused to show you no mercy," he said darkly.

Mr. Peabody ran, whimpering and clumsy in his effort to escape. Draco and Harry waited until his footsteps receded and then dropped the act. They hugged and slapped each other on the back and tried not to cheer loudly enough for the retreating solicitor to hear and come to his senses.

"Please tell me that's what we're looking for," Harry clasped his fingers together in supplication. "I thought it was multiple ledgers."

Draco flipped it open. "It is," he said. "There's a contraction charm on it. Looks like it becomes several volumes when it's released."

"'Romeo and Juliet?'" Harry was almost afraid to ask.

Draco flipped through and nodded. "It's here."

"Merlin," Harry gasped. "It's almost over."

"It's not over yet," Draco snapped the ledger closed. "Let's get this to Old Paul so he can start using these ciphers to decode the play and figure out a counter-curse."

Harry grasped his elbow and nodded for him to Apparate back to the Ministry. Draco eyed him thoughtfully.

"What was that you were saying over there? Was that snake language?"

"Nothing much, just improvised," Harry shrugged. He wished he could celebrate the success of their plan by kissing Draco.

"Impressive, Potter," Draco closed his eyes tightly and nodded. "Come on, just one,"

Harry slipped his arms around Draco's waist and kissed him gently. He didn't push or insist. But to his surprise Draco kissed him back, a real, unconfused kiss. He hoped there were more in their future.

"Ready?" Draco stepped back and straightened his jacket. "Take my arm."

**oOo**

Harry and Draco stepped out of the Floo and into the parlor of Malfoy Manor. The archivists had lauded them as heroes, and the Aurors had promised to publicly credit them with the recovery of the ledgers. Draco had barely known what to do with all of the praise. Even now as he flopped down in a chair, he seemed dazed and somewhat bemused.

Harry sat across from him and watched his face. "So now what?" he asked.

"I don't know," Draco glanced up. "They promised they would start on 'Romeo and Juliet.' I suppose that means they ought to have a counter-curse for you pretty soon."

"Right," Harry nodded. "That's a relief."

"Right," Draco nodded, too. "Especially since we're getting nowhere doing it this way."

"Right," Harry echoed weakly.

"I suppose you'll want to be getting back to your life," Draco glanced away.

"I suppose."

"I mean, since there's no practical reason for you to stay here," his eyes flicked up and away again.

"No practical reason," Harry nodded.

_But what about the impractical ones?_

"It was good to work through everything," Draco said. "When you get changed back maybe we'll have the chance to talk more."

"Right," Harry could feel what was happening. Draco was contracting into himself and pushing Harry away. He didn't know what to do.

"You'll let me know when they break the curse, right?"

"Of course," Harry nodded. "Maybe we can go out then. Like an actual date or something."

"That would be nice," Draco nodded back.

They were silent for a few minutes. Finally Harry stood. "Well I guess I'll get going," he said. "Thanks for your help."

"Thank you, too," Draco stood and walked him to the Floo.

"For what?"

Draco's eyes roved the room, looking anywhere but Harry. "For wanting to talk." He shrugged. "Even if it was only to break the curse."

"Right."

Harry wished Draco would look at him. He knew nothing had changed, he still looked like his former rival, and that was still hard for Draco to stomach. But if he would just set that aside for a moment...

"Talk to you later, then," Draco held out his hand.

"Right," Harry couldn't stop repeating himself. He shook Draco's hand, tossed a pinch of powder into the Floo, and then in a whirl he was back home in Hogsmeade.

His flat smelled stale. It smelled like another person. Harry realized with a start that it smelled like himself, his real self, but he had been a Malfoy and with a Malfoy for long enough that his nose had reset the definition of neutral.

He thought about lying in bed with Draco, sniffing his head and his own arm and detecting no difference. Then he thought about holding Draco in his arms. Then he thought about kissing him. And then he thought about being sent home.

"Fucking arsehole," he cursed as he threw himself down onto the sofa.

That wasn't fair. It wasn't that he was an arsehole, it was that anyone would have a hard time getting turned on by themselves. Still, why had he just sent Harry away? Didn't he feel anything?

"What about all of that,'it's possible to love you' rubbish?" he demanded of his empty flat. "If it's possible, then why send me away?"

He went to his bedroom and tossed himself onto the bed. He caught sight of the candleholder and thought about wanking to his reflection again.

"No," he sat up and spoke angrily. "Not when I've had the real thing and it was good." He scrambled out of bed and leaned on his vanity so he could glare at his reflection. Pale, blond, and the object of his desire. It was beyond unfair. "Who knows how long it will take to figure out a counter-curse? It could be years! We could make it work, you prat. Why isn't it worth trying?" It was no use. The man in the mirror wasn't the one who had sent him away. They just looked remarkably similar.

He stalked back to the living room and sat down. He wished he had someone to talk to about it. Hermione was good to talk to, but he didn't want to talk to her about this. And Ron, Ron was good to talk to, but he would never understand how Harry could fall for Draco Malfoy. He would never get it.

_You know who would get it? Malfoy._

He smiled to himself. Imagining how Draco would call him daft or Juliet, when they both knew they weren't like that play. Not that one. 'Much Ado,' maybe.

He wondered how long it would take the archivists to decode his curse and develop a counter-spell. He tried to believe in the most optimistic possibility, that it could happen at any time. In fact, he should be prepared for a moment's notice. He slipped his hand into his pocket to confirm his glasses were there but found only empty space. Bollocks.

His glasses were at Malfoy Manor, on the bedside table right next to Draco's bed. Harry stood and paced. He couldn't leave his glasses there. He needed them. If he was changed back suddenly he would be blind without them. It was absurd, how could he forget them after needing them for so many years?

He had to go get them.

_Any excuse._

And just like that he was standing outside of the gates of Malfoy Manor. He strode up the drive with grim determination and alighted the front steps. And then he knocked.

A house elf answered and blinked at him in mild confusion.

"Harry Potter to see Draco Malfoy," Harry said, even though he doubted it would erase the creature's confusion.

The door closed and Harry wondered if he would come back. But just a moment later the door opened again and Draco was standing there, withdrawn and hesitant.

"I forgot my glasses," Harry said.

"Oh," Draco's voice was soft.

He waved for Harry to enter and led him upstairs to the master suite. Sure enough there they were, folded neatly on the bedside table. Harry pocketed them, thanked Draco, and then had no idea what to do next.

"You could have used the Floo," Draco said, his voice still soft.

"I wasn't sure if I was welcome to," Harry said.

"Of course you are."

"Am I?" Harry stepped towards him. "Because you sent me away."

"I didn't send you away," Draco's brow furrowed. "It just doesn't make sense for you to stay. You got what you came for."

His words cut like a knife. Not as deep as a Sectumsempra, but painful just the same.

"Okay, I'll go," he whispered.

But his feet wouldn't move. His feet told him to stay. And even though they weren't his feet and therefore had no authority over him, he obeyed.

"Listen, Malfoy," he squeezed his eyes shut. "Damn it, why can't I just call you Draco?"

Draco smiled faintly. "_What's in a name? That which we call a rose—_"

"Don't!" Harry shouted. "Don't you dare quote 'Romeo and Juliet' at me!"

Draco reeled back in surprise. "Potter—"

"No! You don't get to send me away and then quote 'Romeo and Juliet' at me! This is not a tragedy! We are not star crossed lovers! I am not Juliet!" he seethed, the sudden anger as surprising to him as it was to Draco.

Draco tried again. "Potter, I just—"

"We are not Romeo and Juliet," Harry shouted. "We're Benedick and Beatrice! You're Beatrice!" An epiphany struck him at that. "Malfoy," he said breathlessly, "You really are Beatrice. If I were to tell you I love you, you would probably say something snide like, _I would rather hear a dog bark at a crow than hear a man say he loves me._"

"No I wouldn't!" Draco looked insulted.

"I love you, Malfoy," the words escaped Harry's lips before he knew they were coming. But there they were. And they needed to be said again. "I love you. I know it seems fast, and I know you don't think we know each other well enough yet, and maybe we don't, but I love you. And it's not because of the curse or because I'm afraid, I really am in love with you. We've known each other for eight years, for Merlin's sake. I know enough of you by now, and we've put so much of it to rights, and I just," he ran out of breath and tossed his arms up in defeat. "I just love you."

Draco stared at him silently, his mouth hanging open in shock.

"See?" Harry gestured to himself. "It didn't break the curse but I still love you." He stepped closer. "I love you, Malfoy,"

Draco snapped out of it with a sharp shake of his head. He backed up until he was pressed against the wall and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. His chest rose and fell rapidly. and he looked as though he might pass out.

"Potter," he croaked, his hands still blocking his vision.

"What?" Harry was worried he would hyperventilate.

"Potter," he said again

"What, Malfoy? What?"

Draco's chest heaved. When he spoke his words were barely audible.

"I love you, too,"

A bright flash went off and the sound of shattered glass filled Harry's ears. He dropped to a crouch in fright and looked around for the source of the strike but nothing was there. Draco was still pressed against the wall with his eyes covered like he hadn't heard a thing.

But something had changed. Harry's clothes were too tight, he realized. And his trousers were a bit too long. And everything was blurry.

_Sweet Merlin, everything was blurry._

Harry scrambled for his glasses and slipped them onto his face before whirling around and staring at his reflection in the vanity mirror. Green eyes stared back beneath a messy thicket of black hair. He was disoriented for a terrifying moment until it finally clicked.

"I'm me."

He whirled around and stared at Draco, who still had his eyes covered.

"Malfoy," he gasped. "I'm me."

"What?"

"The curse broke!"

"What?" Draco dropped his hands and opened his eyes. Then he froze, his expression completely dumbfounded.

"I'm me!" Harry shouted.

Draco launched himself off of the wall and hurtled across the room. He drove Harry back onto the bed and collided their mouths together in desperation, his hands clinging furiously to Harry's clothes as though to prevent a retreat.

Harry pushed back with equal fury, the familiar sensations of his natural body returning with reassuring swiftness. He clutched at Draco's arms as he carded his fingers through Harry's hair. His tongue, his amazing, flexible, sensual tongue wrapped around Harry's like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Harry pushed his hands up underneath Draco's shirt and stroked his fingers across his back, scars and all, and when Draco released him so they could look at each other he couldn't resist reaching down for a little arse squeeze.

"It's really you," Draco murmured, his eyes raking over every detail of Harry's face.

Harry ran a finger down the line of Draco's jaw and noticed that his fingernails could use some work. There was nothing graceful about his hands, they were hard-working and unkempt. He had calluses from his wand on his index and middle fingers, and he had a hangnail on his little finger. But they were his hands through and through.

"What are you grinning at, you nutter?" Draco asked, although his gentle touch belied the sharp edge to his words.

"I'm me," Harry said simply.

"You're you," Draco smiled. He looked Harry up and down and then abruptly started unbuttoning his shirt. "Well let's get a look at you, then."

Harry seized Draco's buttons, too. "We'll need to compare," he said.

They both laughed at the absurd act, as though it were purely academic. In no time they were both stripped down, lying diagonally across Draco's mattress and exploring each other's differences with fingertips and mouths.

Draco buried his face in the crook of Harry's neck and sucked sensuously at the soft curve of skin there. He paused and inhaled deeply, then released it with a delirious groan.

"You smell amazing," he said before diving in for more exploration.

Harry arched into his touch and then brought his nose down into Draco's hair. Oh Merlin yes.

Draco propped himself up on his elbow and ran a hand down Harry's chest, trailing his fingernails through the dark chest hair. A delighted grin spread across his face.

"You're so different from me," he toyed with the line of hair that led from Harry's navel to his groin.

"Is that why you love me?" Harry asked. He pulled Draco down to kiss him again and for a moment they were lost in it.

"No," Draco said as they parted. "But it helps."

Harry traced the smooth line of his arm to his hand. "_For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?_"

"Look at your face," Draco snorted. "So pleased with yourself every time you recall a quote."

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed and threw his arms around Draco so he could roll them over until he was on top. "Look at my face! _My_ face!"

Draco laughed and let Harry paw at him until he couldn't take it anymore and rolled them over so that he was on top again.

"_I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?_"

Harry rolled his eyes—_his eyes!_—and chuckled. "You're pleased with yourself, too."

They kissed in earnest then, their hands exploring and far more synchronized than last time. Harry ran a finger down Draco's Sectumsempra scar, and Draco ran his hand across Harry's scar-free chest. Then he continued the journey down to Harry's groin, where he teased around the base of his cock with small, glancing touches. Harry thought his head would explode. Draco fluttered a loose grip up and down his shaft, over and over, raising a desperate heat in Harry's core.

Just when he thought he couldn't take another moment of teasing, Draco grasped him firmly and began to stroke with confidence. A long, feverish groan escaped from Harry's throat, which elicited a chuckle from his benefactor. He slid down Harry's body and took Harry's cock into his mouth, as deep as it would go. He pushed Harry's leg to the side and teased his finger around his entrance, then slipped inside as he went in for another swallow.

Harry's body reverberated with a chorus of approval from every nerve ending from his head to his toes. He would have cheered if he could have formed coherent sounds. Instead he shivered and quaked and groaned as Draco swallowed again and again, his finger glancing across Harry's prostate.

By the time Draco crawled back up his body, Harry was a quivering, helpless mess. And when Draco whispered his protection charm and entered Harry nearly sobbed with gratitude. He curled his legs around Draco's back and flexed his hips, driving a shuddering gasp from his partner's throat.

"Potter," Draco gasped again as Harry flexed over and over. "Slow down. I'm going to—"

Harry grasped his cock and pulled quickly, rapidly catching up to Draco's impending climax. They thrust in rhythm as the pressure built, and suddenly Draco's face flushed and his thighs convulsed as he emptied his load in one tremendous orgasm. Harry stroked his cock just once more and he came like an explosion, too, marking his chest and the sheets with his sticky wetness.

Draco heaved for breath as a second wave rolled through him, and then finally he unclenched and sagged on top of Harry, spreading the mess as he slid to the side and laid in an exhausted heap. He hefted one lazy hand, waved it in a perfunctory cleansing charm, and let it flop across Harry's stomach.

"That's better," Harry sighed.

"It wasn't good before?"

"It was good. This was better."

"It was better,"

Draco propped his head on his folded arm and stared at Harry with his wide, silver eyes, the colour of which Harry now knew was a trick of the light. It didn't matter, as far as he was concerned they were as silver as the moon.

"Thank you," Harry said.

"For what?"

"For helping me."

"Of course I helped you," Draco frowned. "What else was I to do?"

"You could have denied me."

Draco shook his head. "No I couldn't."

Harry thought about it and decided he was right. This went way back before the curse, they would have never denied each other. It wasn't even an option.


	11. Chapter 11

Draco's clothes were too uncomfortable to put back on. Harry was built solidly, and the slim-cut trousers cut into his waist just enough to be unpleasant. He padded nude down the hall to the guest room and found the clothes he'd worn on his first arrival, cleaned and folded at the end of the bed. Lying on top was a folded strip of scrap paper with unfamiliar handwriting on it.

_"Serve God, love me, and mend."_

Below it were scribbled notes that included a cipher and a partially translated spell. Harry remembered writing them down on his first afternoon in Malfoy Manor, back when the hand that wrote it was not his own. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket before stepping into his trainers and heading downstairs to the parlor.

Draco was waiting for him at the Floo, and although he tried to hold it back a smile spread across his face when Harry appeared in the doorway.

"Granger already sent an owl back," he said. "She's there right now, so we can drop by and see her anytime."

"And Ron?"

"She said Weasley is on his way down from the Auror office," Draco did a poor job concealing his opinion of Harry's friends. But he didn't openly insult them, which was promising.

"So let's go," Harry clapped his hand over his stomach as it fluttered with butterflies. "Strange, why am I nervous about going out in my own face?"

"Maybe you preferred being me," Draco suggested. "I assume it was a rather amazing experience. I should start offering it priced at a premium. Be Draco Malfoy for a day!"

"Ha ha, you think you're so hilarious," Harry snorted.

He snagged Draco's hand and reeled him in, then buried his nose in his collarbone so he could inhale his clean scent, just because he could. Just because he was allowed to.

"Come on," Draco pulled him to the Floo. "It's time to clear my good name."

A whirl of green flame and a fragment of a moment later, Harry stepped out into the Ministry Atrium and swiveled his head to check for familiar faces. A moment later Draco stepped out behind him and did the same. Harry seized his hand and they strode down the corridor towards the lifts.

Faces turned their way as they passed and he noticed how differently passers-by eyed him now as compared to before. As Draco he had felt like the object of disdain and distrust. As Harry he felt admiration and approval. He didn't like the difference.

"What are you doing?" Draco looked down at his arm, where Harry was linking elbows with him and pressing as close to him as he could.

"I don't like the way people look at you," Harry said. "I want people to see that you're with me. If they want to think positively of me, they'd better think positively of you."

They arrived at the lift and Harry nodded at a passing group of witches who eyed their intertwined arms with mixed approval.

"See, repairing your reputation already," Harry squeezed his hand.

Draco rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed, "_Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving._"

"Well you deserve some of your reputation," Harry said. "But there's hope for you yet."

The lift arrived and they stepped in to be whisked off to the archives. When they arrived they walked out into a buzzing hive of activity. It seemed every historian wizard in England had been summoned to work on Voldemort's Shakespearean curses.

Harry ducked down a side aisle and hid in the stacks while Draco strode confidently down the centre to Old Paul's table. Hermione was sitting with him, scanning over lines of ledger text while Ron tapped his fingers and looked bored. Harry peeked between the books to watch.

Draco sat down in the chair between Hermione and Ron. "Hello."

"Oh Harry, look, Old Paul has figured out how the 'Romeo and Juliet' cypher unlocks your curse. See here," she tapped the page with her finger. Draco nodded and looked impressed.

"Where's Malfoy?" Ron lowered his voice and peered around. "Did he give up on helping you?"

"Of course not, why would I do such a thing?" Draco said.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, confusion etched between their brows. Hermione leaned forward and squinted at Draco, scanning his face for anything familiar. "Are you Harry or Malfoy?" she finally asked.

Draco leaned over to Ron and spoke sincerely, "She's doing it again. You really ought to get her checked out."

"Malfoy?" Ron leaned away. "What are you doing? Where's Harry?"

"Potter? He's right over there," he waved his hand negligently towards the stacks where Harry was hiding.

That was his cue. He stepped out from behind the bookcase and waved. "Hi."

"I don't know what's so confusing," Draco went on. "We don't resemble each other in the slightest."

Hermione shrieked and ran at Harry, totally disregarding archive policies about loud noises. Ron's chair clattered to the ground as he jumped up to tackle his friend, too.

"Okay, okay," he struggled to stay upright beneath the weight of their hugs. "I'm okay. It happened earlier this afternoon."

"How did it break?" Hermione led him over to the table to sit down. He wedged in between her and Draco.

"_My only love sprung from my only hate,_" Old Paul's voice rustled like dry leaves. "True love breaks the curse."

"True love—" Hermione cut herself off. "You?" she asked Draco. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Given that it broke a Shakespearian curse, I'd say it makes more sense than you think," Draco replied.

"But you hate him," Ron was nakedly confused.

"I did," Harry nodded. He scooped up Draco's hand and held it to his heart. "But not anymore."

"I suppose," Hermione shrugged. Her eyes tracked their clasped hands like they were creatures to be studied. "And do you love Harry back?"

"The curse confirmed it," Draco nodded. "That's what broke the spell."

"I don't know what to say," she sat back in her chair.

"Just say you're happy for us," Harry couldn't quite keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

Hermione shook her head sharply and smiled. "I am happy for you. I'm sorry, it's just a lot to absorb at once. We should celebrate."

"Let's get a pint," Ron said. "I need a drink to understand all of this."

"That sounds just about right," Draco rose to his feet. "No time like the present."

"You go ahead to the lift," Harry said. "I want to speak to Old Paul for a moment."

His friends agreed and filed down the aisle between the shelves. Old Paul looked up expectantly from his parchments.

"I hope we didn't waste your time," Harry said. "It just sort of happened. I hope you didn't spend long working on deciphering my curse."

"They all need to be deciphered," Old Paul shrugged his thin shoulders.

"Can I ask you something?" Harry dug into his pocket. "This is from 'Much Ado About Nothing.' I understand the archive has its own deciphered copy but this is from Voldemort's ledger. Can you tell me what the spell is?"

"Ah yes," Old Paul peered down his nose at the paper. "I see the Dark Lord dismissed it as useless. It requires weakness, he says," he chuckled knowingly. "This is an incredibly powerful healing spell."

"It is?" Harry sat up in surprise. "I assumed it was healing, but I didn't think one line could be very powerful."

"Incredibly powerful," the elderly man repeated. "It isn't the length of the line that matters, it's the love between whomever casts it and whomever receives it. Cast in the name of truest love, it could heal the gravest wound." His eyes twinkled. "Very powerful."

"Do you have the translation?" Harry's breath hung in his throat.

"I do," Old Paul lifted a quill and scratched a short phrase on the scrap of paper. "Fully deciphered, this is how it reads."

"Diligentibus serviamus sanus," Harry read. "What is the wand gesture?"

"For this spell," Old Paul touched the page, "no wand is necessary. If the love is there, the wound will heal."

"Thank you," Harry looked at the paper in his hand and chewed his lip. He looked up and saw Old Paul was smiling with tears in his eyes.

"No," the old man said. "Thank you. You've brought us the ciphers and given me closure on a lifetime of work. I am forever in your debt."

"You're welcome," Harry said. "But Draco Malfoy is the one who deserves the credit. When you tell people who brought in the ciphers please say it was him, not me."

"As you like it," Old Paul smiled.

Harry shook his hand and headed for the lift, for his best friends and the man he loved. A few rounds at a pub sounded just about perfect and he couldn't wait to see the world again through his own two eyes. It was a luxury he'd never expected to miss.

**oOo**

Harry and Draco stared up at the ceiling, their energy spent and their bodies thrumming with pleasure. The evening light slanted through the drapes and the the smell of supper cooking wafted up the stairs.

Harry laid his head on Draco's shoulder and traced his fingers up and down his chest, skipping over the dip of his Sectumsempra scar each time.

"I'm sorry I marked you," he said sadly. "I wish I could go back in time and stop myself from throwing that curse."

"I've already forgiven you, Potter," Draco said. He drew lazy circles on Harry's back with his fingertips.

"Would you let me see if I can heal it?" Harry pushed up on his elbow.

"It is healed," Draco yawned. "It's just scarred."

"I mean, perhaps I can heal your scar."

"You can't heal a Sectumsempra scar," Draco said. "Believe me, I've tried."

"Would you let me try?" Harry asked. "I think I could do it."

"Whatever makes you happy, Potter." Draco laid back and closed his eyes. "As long as it doesn't make us late for supper."

"It's brief," Harry assured him.

He held his hand over Draco's chest and concentrated. He thought about the past few days and the love he'd discovered between himself and his former enemy. He thought about the way they had turned hate into love and broken a curse with nothing more than the connection between their hearts. He felt himself warm at the thought of that connection.

"What is it?" Draco's brow furrowed. "You're blushing."

Harry smiled gently and kissed Draco, just once, but with as much affection as he could communicate in a single kiss.

"I love you, Malfoy," he said.

"I love you, too, Potter."

Harry felt like his heart might burst with joy. He held his hand above the scar and focused on that feeling, that incredible feeling of loving and being loved. Of what a gift that was.

"Diligentibus serviamus sanus," he said.

The warmth coalesced in his arm, traveled down his fingers, and radiated out of his hand. Before their eyes the taut silvery scar tissue that sliced shoulder to hip across Draco's body rippled and repaired, closing up and sealing without so much as a seam left behind.

Draco gawked at his chest, his eyes wide and disbelieving. His fingers slipped across his body, searching for evidence of the scar but finding nothing but perfectly smooth skin.

"Potter," he gasped. "How did you do that?"

"I didn't," Harry said. "We did it. I couldn't have done it if you didn't love me back." He ducked his head. "I was a bit worried that it wouldn't work, but I just had to trust that this is real."

Draco drew Harry's head down to his shoulder and curled his arms around him. For several moments he was speechless and simply buried his nose in Harry's hair. When he finally spoke his voice was so soft that Harry nearly missed it.

_"Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt my love."_

**THE END**


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